« 


SINGER, 

CLARA~M<bRRis 


'/- 


A  Silent  Singer 


A  Silent  Singer 


BY 

Clara   Morris 


NEW  YORK 

BRENTANO'S 

1899 


COPYRIGHT  1899 

BY 
CLARA  MORRIS  HARRIOTT 


TO 

That  small  public  of  my  very  own — 
the  two  who  have  listened  to  me  unweariedly — 

criticised  gently,  and  encouraged  heartily — 

to  that  patient  pair — my  Mother  and  my  Husband, 

I  dedicate  these  little  stories. 

CLARA  MORRIS  HARRIOTT. 
May  1st,  1899. 


M20G1SS 


Contents 

PAGE 

A  Silent  Singer            ...  1 

An  Old  Hulk  -      35 

The  Gentleman  Who  Was  Going  To  Die    -          71 

Old  Myra's  Waiting  -      93 

"In  Paris,  Suddenly-  161 

Two  Buds  -    173 

The  Ambition  of  Macllhenny       -  197 

John  Hickey:  Coachman           -         -  -    217 

Black  Watch       -         -  241 

Dinah     -                           .  -257 

Life's  Aftermath 293 


A  Silent  Singer 


A  Silent  Singer 

It  had  been  a  hot  day,  and  the  minister  had  brought 
us,  my  mother  and  myself,  from  the  city  to  his  country 
home,  in  a  mysterious,  antediluvian  species  of  buggy. 
Of  all  the  race  of  men  it  is  the  country  minister  alone 
who  can  discover  this  particular  breed  of  buggy.  They 
are  always  gifted  with  strange  powers  of  endurance ; 
never  being  purchased  until  they  have  seemingly  reached 
the  point  of  dissolution,  they  will  thereafter,  for  years 
and  years,  shake  and  totter,  and  rattle  and  rock,  car 
rying  all  the  time  not  only  people  but  almost  every 
conceivable  kind  of  merchandise,  from  a  few  pounds  of 
groceries  to  a  pumpkin  or  a  very  youthful  calf,  without 
coming  one  step  nearer  their  final  wreck. 

This  special  buggy  could  hold  one  person  in  com 
fort,  two  in  discomfort  and  three  in  torture.  I  had 
been  the  party  of  the  third  part  in  that  day's  ride,  and 
worn  out  and  crumpled  and  dusty,  we  passed  from 
darkness  into  a  room  full  of  lamp-light  and  faces.  I 
was  trying  to  support  myself  steadily  upon  a  pair  of 
legs  so  recently  aroused  from  dumb  sleep  that  they 
had  barely  reached  the  ticklish  stage,  and  the  ten  thou 
sand  needle-prickling  power  was  in  full  blast  when  the 
Rev.  Hyler  introduced  me  to  his  seven  sons.  My  daz 
zled  eyes  and  tired  mind  made  them  seem  full  seven 
teen  to  me,  and  they  were  so  big  and  rough  and  noisy, 
I  hung  my  head,  confused,  disappointed,  frightened 


2  A  Silent  Singer 

even,  and  then  I  felt  the  gentle  pressure  of  her  hot  little 
hand  on  mine. 

I  raised  my  childish  eyes  and  saw  the  sweetness  of 
the  smile  upon  her  pallid  face,  saw  it  dawn  upon  her 
lips,  pass  swiftly  to  the  dimple  in  her  cheek,  hide  a 
moment  there,  only  to  reappear  the  next  dancing  in  the 
sapphire  blueness  of  her  eyes — saw  and  mentally 
bowed  down  and  worshipped  her  from  that  moment. 
Physically,  I  clung  close  to  her  burning  hand  and  gave 
her  back  a  smile  of  such  astounding  breadth  and  frank 
ness  as  must  have  revealed  to  her  my  entire  dental 
economy ;  and  when,  a  few  minutes  later,  I  learned  that 
she  whispered  because  her  voice  was  gone — lost  forever, 
I  felt  such  a  passion  of  love  and  pity  for  her,  such  a 
longing  to  spare  her  suffering,  that,  but  for  its  absurd 
ity,  I  could  have  .wounded  my  own  flesh  that  I  might 
bear  the  pain  in  her  name.  Grown-ups  do  not  always 
understand  the  strength  of  feeling  young  things  are 
capable  of. 

Next  day  we  two  round  pegs  began  fitting  ourselves 
into  the  new  holes  prepared  for  us,  and  though  they 
were  not  absolutely  square,  they  were  still  far  enough 
from  roundness  to  be  very  uncomfortable  holes  indeed. 
My  mother  began  her  never-ending  duties  of  house 
keeper.  Mrs.  Hyler  -had  broken  down  from  overwork 
and  sick-nursing,  and  I  having,  as  my  mother  once 
declared,  "  as  many  eyes  as  had  a  peacock's  tail,"  began 
my  almost  unconscious  observations  of  a  new  form  of 
poverty.  (I  already  had  a  really  exhaustive  knowledge 


A  Silent  Singer  3 

of  the  subject  both  from  observation  and  from  personal 
experience,  and  I  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  the 
bitterness  of  poverty  was  greatly  influenced  by  the  man 
ner  in  which  it  was  accepted.  I  had  known  abject, 
ragged  poverty  to  enjoy  streaks  of  real  merriment  on 
comparatively  comfortable  occasions,  while  higher  up 
in  life  those  who  openly  acknowledged  their  poverty 
seemed  only  to  suffer  its  inconvenience  and  to  know 
nothing  of  the  shame  and  humiliation  of  those  who 
tried  to  hide  theirs  by  agonizing  makeshifts.)  Here 
I  found  it  was  accepted  in  sullen  silence,  but,  never 
theless,  bitter  resentment  lowered  on  every  face  save 
my  dear  Miss  Linda's. 

She  always  turned  to  those  eighteen  watchful,  loving 
eyes  a  sweetly-smiling,  pallid  face  with  serene  brows^; 
but  I  saw  her  sometimes  when  smile  and  serenity  were 
both  gone  and  her  face  was  anguished. 

The  Kev.  Hyler,  minister,  farmer,  father  of  seven 
sons,  was  himself  a  seventh  son,  and  had  he  been  exam 
ined  at  his  birth  with  that  closeness  of  scrutiny  given 
to  first-born  babies,  I'm  positive  the  word  "  failure  " 
could  have  been  found  plainly  stamped  upon  his  small 
person.  He  was  a  tall,  gray,  narrow  man,  and  seemed 
always  to  have  a  bitter  taste  in  his  mouth.  Black- 
coated,  white-tied  and  pale,  he  seemed  to  have  been 
pressed  between  the  leaves  of  some  old  volume  of  ser 
mons  and  left  there  till  all  the  color  and  sap  had  dried 
out  of  him  as  it  might  dry  out  of  a  pressed  violet  or 
pansy.  Perpetual  ill-humor  had  stamped  to  the  very 


4  A  Silent  Singer 

bone  the  three-lined  frown  he  wore  between  his  eye 
brows.  He  was  an  educated  man  and  full  of  informa 
tion — that  was  of  no  use  to  him.  He  could  give  sta 
tistics  as  to  the  number  of  the  inhabitants  of  Palestine, 
but  he  could  not  tell  whether  an  unsatisfactory  field 
required  topdressing  or  under-draining.  He  had  been 
an  instructor,  a  teacher  ;  had,  in  fact,  been  at  the  head 
of  one  of  the  State  colleges,  but  failed  and  came 
back,  much  embittered,  to  the  small  church  he  had  left 
with  such  high  hopes ;  but  finding  he  had  pro 
vided  himself  with  more  mouths  than  his  salary  could 
well  fill  he  had  taken  to  farming,  at  which  he  seemed 
to  be  the  greatest  failure  of  all. 

Narrow  and  cold  by  nature,  soured  by  disappoint 
ment,  he  loved  but  one  person  on  earth,  and  that  per 
son  was  his  first-bo*rn  child,  his  only  daughter,  Linda. 
He  admired  her,  he  was  proud  of  her,  he  loved  her, 
truly  and  tenderly,  beyond  a  doubt ;  but,  alas,  as  surely 
beyond  a  doubt,  his  was  a  jealous  and  a  selfish  love,  and 
she,  with  eyes  whose  power  and  penetration  fully 
equalled  their  rare  beauty  of  coloring,  read  him 
through  and  through,  as  she  might  have  read  a  book ! 
Saw  the  dry,  gray  man's  weakness  of  resolve,  his  bitter 
temper,  his  small  tyrannies,  and  worse — far  worse, 
because  that  was  a  most  repellant  sin — his  hypocrisy ;  saw 
all  these  things  and  with  no  touch  of  sympathy  for  any 
one  of  them,  but,  with  what  seemed  almost  divine  com 
passion,  she  gave  him  reverent  service  and  such  tender, 
loyal  love  as  many  a  better  father  fails  all  his  life  to  win. 


A  Silent  Singer  5 

And  this  sweet  Linda,  woman-grown — this  young 
lady  who  had  "  come  out,"  and  had  had  a  season  of 
social  gaiety  in  the  city — who — oh,  wondrous  being ! 
had  had  real  "  for  true  "  lovers — she  stooped  from  her 
high  estate  to  honor  me  with  her  attention,  her  conver 
sation — even,  to  a  certain  point,  her  confidence — while 
I  had  only  reached  that  humiliating  stage  in  life  where 
old  ladies  could  refer  to  me  as  a  u  growing  girl."  And 
this  condescension  filled  me  with  such  joy — such  stu 
pendous  pride — I  marvel  it  did  not  precede  a  mighty 
fall.  But,  looking  back  upon  it  all,  I  think  I  see  a 
pathetic  reason  for  that  unequal  companionship.  My 
mother,  knowing  me  to  be  painfully  sensitive  to  suffer 
ing  or  sorrow,  kept  from  me  the  knowledge  that  the 
girl  I  so  loved  was  slowly  dying,  a  victim  of  that  fell 
disease,  consumption  !  Her  days  were  so  surely  num 
bered  that  no  one  had  the  faintest  hope  that  she  would 
see  the  yellowing  of  the  leaves  that  now  danced  greenly 
on  the  trees.  I  saw  her  pale  and  very,  very  fragile, 
and  only  loved  her  more.  I  saw  her  faint  sometimes, 
but  I  had  seen  other  women  faint  when  I  knew  they 
were  not  ill,  and,  to  my  childish  ideas,  any  one  who 
rose  from  her  bed  and  dressed  each  day  must  surely 
be  quite  well.  So  it  came  about  that  in  my  eyes  alone 
she  belonged  still  to  the  world  of  the  living — in  my 
face  alone  could  she  read  love  without  anxiety,  and 
when  she  laughed,  as  she  often  did,  it  was  only  in  my 
eye  she  found  a  hearty,  gay  response,  for  every  other 
glance  was  full  of  anguished  pity. 


6  A  Silent  Singer 

If  my  ignorance  was  not  bliss,  it  was,  at  least,  I  truly 
think,  a  comfort  to  her,  since  by  its  help  she  could  for 
get  for  a  time,  at  least,  that  she  was  doomed  and  set 
aside  as  having  nothing  more  to  do  with  life.  And.  my 
profound  interest  and  naif  admiration  egged  her  on  to 
tell  me  of  the  gay,  sweet  past — such  an  innocent,  piti 
fully  short  past  it  was — of  her  small  triumphs  and  her 
pretty  frocks.  Sometimes  she  would  even  show  me 
her  few  girlish  trinkets,  but  I  was  quick  to  observe  that 
if  I  ever  asked  about  her  future  use  of  them  a  sort  of 
shudder  passed  over  her  white  face  and  her  eyes  would 
close  quickly  for  a  moment;  then  she  would  answer 
evasively,  gently ;  yet  there  was  a  flatness  in  the  tones 
of  her  voice,  and  she  would  surely  remark,  "  that  she 
would  try  now  to  doze  a  little." 

It  was  not  long  before  my  observation  brought 
me  closer  to  her  tender  heart,  while  slowly  I  learned, 
little  by  little,  something  of  the  weight  of  the 
cross  this  fragile  girl  was  bearing  on  her  trembling 
shoulders. 

Mrs.  Hyler  was,  I  think,  the  most  disconcerting  per 
son  in  this  uncomfortable  family.  Her  manner  toward 
them  was  that  of  a  moderately  devoted  housekeeper — 
head  nurse,  who  presumed  slightly  by  reason  of  her 
long  service.  The  last  scant  drop  of  kindness — the 
last  ray  of  warmth  of  affection — I  dare  not  use  a 
stronger  word — was  for  her  Linda !  But  we  must  remem 
ber  that  for  four  and  twenty  years  she  had  listened  to 
what  the  Rev.  Hyler  "  was  going  to  do,"  and  had  suf- 


A  Silent  Singer  7 

fered  from  what  the  Rev.  Hyler  "  did  not  do,"  and  there 
was  no  hope  left  in  her. 

I  shall  not  introduce  her  sons  individually,  but  will 
simply  state  that  between  the  Spanish-looking  eldest  one 
—brave,  loyal,  honest  and  kind — and  the  impish  young 
est,  with  the  face  of  a  blond  seraph  and  a  heart  like  a 
nether  mill-stone,  there  were  five  others,  each  one  striv 
ing  to  be — or  so  it  seemed — as  unlike  his  brothers  as 
possible.  In  all  their  lives  they  had  found  but  two  sub 
jects  they  could  agree  upon ;  on  these,  however,  they 
were  as  one  boy.  Their  honest,  hearty  love  for  "  Sister 
Linda  "  was  one  subject,  and  a  fixed  determination  to 
•*'  get  even  "  with  their  father  was  the  other. 

Linda  Hyler  loved  music  profoundly,  and  she  had 
not  only  natural  talent,  but  powers  of  concentration 
aod  a  capacity  for  hard  work  that  might  have  made  an 
artist  of  her.  And  the  poor  child  had  had  her  oppor 
tunity — for  one  with  means  and  power  and  the  inclina 
tion  to  use  them,  attracted  by  the  purity  and  volume 
iof  her  voice  and  by  her  earnest  ambition,  had  offered 
lo  assist  her  to  that  stern  training,  so  difficult  in  those 
'days  to  obtain,  even  when  one  had  the  money  to  pay 
for  it.  But  if  she  had  talent,  she  also  had  a  father, 
and  he  with  the  bitter-taste  seemingly  strong  in  his 
mouth,  refused  the  kindly  offer,  giving  no  nobler  reason 
for  his  act  than  that  ushe  was  his  only  daughter  and 
he  wojdd  miss  her  far  too  much."  She  pleaded  with 
him  in  vain,  and  had  the  pain  of  seeing  her  one  oppor 
tunity  float  away  from  her,  taking  on,  as  it  went,  all 


8  A  Silent  Singer 

the  airy  grace,  all  the  glancing  beauty  of  a  bubble 
floating  in  the  sunshine. 

Had  her  father  not  provided  so  much  material  for 
its  building,  the  cross  she  bore  might  not  have  been 
so  heavy.  Up  to  the  time  of  our  arrival,  Linda  had 
managed  to  sit  a  little  while  each  day  before  the  bat 
tered  old  organ  that  stood  in  an  otherwise  empty  room. 
To  any  other  family  it  would  have  been  the  parlor — 
to  this  family  it  was  a  thing  without  a  name.  But 
even  as  you  have  seen  a  timid,  lonely  woman  appear  at 
her  window,  whistling  loudly  and  wearing  a  man's  hat 
— by  means  of  which  she  convinces  would-be  burglars 
of  the  presence  there  of  a  large  and  very  destructive 
man — so  these  parlor  windows  were  well  curtained,  that 
the  occasional  humped-over,  slow-driving  passer-by 
might  be  convinced  that  this  parlor  held — (as  much 
ingrain-horse-hair-worsted-crocheting,  and  high  art 
plaster  cats,  with  round  black  spots  and  heavy  coats 
of  varnish  as  any) — and  I  suppose  that  one  trick  was 
quite  as  convincing  as  the  other — any  way,  there 
sat  Linda  in  that  dreary  room,  before  the  organ, 
drawing  from  its  sulky  and  unwilling  interior 
sounds  of  such  solemn  sweetness  as  made  one 
pray  involuntarily;  and  sometimes  she  played  simply 
an  accompaniment — sitting  with  lifted  face  and  closed 
eyes,  the  veins  swelling  in  her  throat,  but  no  sound 
coming  from  her  moving  lips.  Already  I  had  become 
her  second  shadow,  and  so  I'd  creep  into  the  empty 
room  after  her,  and  listen  to  her  playing,  and  once 


A  Silent  Singer  9 

when  I  was  greatly  moved,  she  turned  to  me  and  said: 
"  Little  Sister " — the  pet  name  she  had  graciously 
bestowed  on  me — "  what  does  that  make  you  think  of  ?" 

And  without  a  pause  I  answered  eagerly :  "A 
church — not,"  I  hurriedly  explained,  "  not  our  church, 
but  a  great  one  with  pictures,  and  lots  of  people,  and 
lights  and  sweet-smoke  I" 

Ah,  how  she  laughed,  and  though  it  was  but  a  husky 
whispering  affair,  it  was  still  a  very  merry  laugh, 
because  of  the  light  that  danced  so  gaily  to  it  in  her  eyes. 
She  then  informed  me  that  the  music  had  been  a  mere 
scrap  from  a  famous  oratorio,  and  that  my  "  sweet- 
smoke"  was  called  incense,  and  though  she  set  me 
right,  it  was  her  harmless  jest  to  use  the  word  "  sweet- 
smoke  "  herself  ever  after. 

We  had  been  there  but  a  little  while,  when  one  day 
I  noticed  something  wrong  with  the  music  ;  the  tones 
were  weak  and  wavering,  there  seemed  to  be  no  cer 
tainty  in  her  touch.  Her  little  hand  could  not  hold  a 
simple  chord  with  firmness,  and  then  the  next  moment 
there  was  a  soft  crash  of  the  yellow,  old  keys,  as  Linda 
sank  forward  helpless  and  panting.  I  sprang  to  help 
her,  and  between  two  struggling,  unwilling  breaths,  I 
heard  her  whisper :  "Must  this  go  too?  Dear  God! 
must  this  go  too?" 

By  chance  the  little  brother  had  been  present.  He 
called  his  mother,  and  presently  Linda  was  on  the  sofa 
in  the  other  room,  and  the  inevitable  farm-house  remedy 
for  all  mortal  ills,  the  camphor-bottle — or  to  use  the 


10  A  Silent  Singer 

rural  term,  the  "  camfire  " — had  been  produced,  and 
soon  Linda  raised  her  eyes  and  called  up  the  old,  sweet 
smile ;  while  little  Arthur  stood  with  sturdy  legs  far 
apart — his  hands  in  his  small  pockets,  and  his  father's 
own  special  brand  of  frown  upon  his  brow — watching 
his  sister's  restoration ;  then  he  remarked  :  "  Linda,  it 
was  blowin'  wind  into  that  d  — blamed  old  organ,  that 
busted  yer  all  up  just  now  ! — so  it  was ! — and  after  this 
yer  just  pull  yer  feet  back  out  of  the  way,  and  I'll 
crawl  under  there,  and  work  them  'pedal  treadle 
things,'  and  blow  yer  all  the  wind  yer  want — and  if  I 
blow  so  hard  it  busts  the  thing,  papa  darsent  lick  me, 
'cause  I'll  be  doin'  it  for  you !"  and  he  danced  with 
malicious  glee ! 

Next  day  he  kept  his  word,  and  though  Miss  Linda 
played  a  little  while,  somehow  the  spirit  seemed  to  have 
gone  out  of  her  music.  But  when  Arthur  came  out  on 
all-fours  from  under  the  instrument's  front,  hot,  red 
and  tousled,  his  sister  shook  his  little  hand  and 
thanked  him  and  kissed  him  tenderly — and  he,  swelling 
with  gratified  pride  and  love,  went  out  behind  the 
smoke-house,  where  he  swore  a  little  for  practice,  and 
tried  to  kill  the  cat. 

Next  morning  early,  as  I  left  our  room,  I  glanced  into 
Miss  Linda's,  and  saw  it  had  not  been  put  in  order  yet. 
Being  ever  eager  to  do  something  in  her  service,  I 
thought  I  might  slip  in  and  beat  up  her  pillows  and 
place  them  in  the  sun  as  I  had  seen  the  "  grown-ups  " 
do.  So  in  I  went  and,  snatching  up  the  nearest  pillow, 


A  Silent  Singer  11 

I  gave  a  startled  "  Oh !"  and  stood  staring,  for  beneath 
it  lay  the  miniature  of  a  man,  whose  questioning  brown 
eyes  looked  up  at  me  from  a  face  young  yet  stern  to  the 
point  of  sombreness.  My  first  impulse  was  to  restore 
the  pillow  and  run  away,  but  next  moment  I  noticed, 
lying  close  to  the  picture,  all  crumpled  up  into  a  little 
wad,  Miss  Linda's  handkerchief.  I  leaned  over  and 
touched  it,  and  it  was  still  damp  with  tears.  A  great 
lump  rose  in  my  throat  and,  though  I  was  but  a  "  grow 
ing-girl,"  it  was  the  heart  of  a  woman  that  was  giv 
ing  those  quick,  hard  blows  in  my  breast  and  making 
me  understand.  I  sprang  across  the  room  and  softly 
closed  the  door.  I  said  to  myself  :  "  Miss  Linda  loves 
him,  and  she  is  unhappy  and  grieves,  and  she  does  not 
wish  them  to  know !" 

I  went  to  her  bureau  and  took  a  fresh  handkerchief 
from  the  drawer,  then  I  took  the  miniature — it  was  on 
ivory,  and,  from  its  small,  gold  frame,  I  fancied  it  had 
been  intended  for  an  ornament — and  slipped  it  into 
the  velvet  case  I  found  near  by;  then  I  carefully  rolled 
the  case  inside  of  the  handkerchief  and  started  down 
stairs,  trying  hard  to  look  unconcerned  as  I  entered  the 
dining-room. 

Breakfast  had  just  been  placed  upon  the  table,  and 
every  one  save  Linda  was  moving  toward  it.  A  little, 
drooping  figure  still  seated,  she  seemed  very  ill  that 
morning,  and  the  great,  dark  circles  about  her  eyes 
looked  like  purple  stains  on  her  white  face.  I 
crossed  directly  to  her,  thus  turning  my  back  upon 


12  A  Silent  Singer 

every  one  else,  and  leaning  over  her  and  thrusting  my 
small  package  into  her  hand  with  a  warning  pressure 
of  the  fingers,  I  said :  "I  have  brought  a  fresh  hand 
kerchief  for  you,  Miss  Linda — do  you  want  it?" 

The  moment  she  touched  the  parcel  she  understood. 
Her  eyes  sent  one  startled  glance  toward  her  father — 
then  she  looked  at  me.  The  white  weariness  faded  all 
away,  and  warmly,  rosily  I  saw  her  love  blossom 
sweetly  in  her  face,  while  she  answered :  "  Thank  you, 
little  sister — yes  I  want  it,"  and  slipped  the  handker 
chief  into  the  pocket  of  her  gown,  just  as  her  father 
pushed  me  impatiently  aside  that  he  might  assist  her 
to  her  place  at  table. 

He  instantly  noted  the  color  in  her  face  and  sharply 
exclaimed  :  "  What's  this — what's  this  !  is  this  a  fever 
ish  manifestation,  at  this  hour  of  the  day?" 

And  Linda  smiled"  and  charged  him  with  "  culti 
vating  his  imagination,  instead  of  his  corn,"  and  by 
the  time  she  was  in  her  place  the  color  had  faded,  the 
waxen  pallor  was  back  upon  her  face,  and  the  small 
incident  had  been  safely  passed. 

Late  that  afternoon  Linda  was  lying  on,  or  perhaps 
I  should  say  clinging  to,  the  hard  and  slippery  thing 
they  called  a  sofa — Heaven  save  the  mark !  It  was 
long  and  hard,  and  smoothly  covered  with  shiny  leather. 
It  arched  up  in  its  middle  over  very  powerful  springs, 
and  the  springs  and  the  slipperiness  did  the  trick  for 
every  one.  You  could  not  snuggle  on  it  to  save  your 
life,  and  if  you  attempted  to  be  friendly  with  it  and 


A  Silent  Singer  13 

tried  to  rest  your  book  or  fan  or  smelling  bottle  beside 
you — hoop  la ! — with  an  intensity  of  malice  known  only 
to  the  inanimate  enemy  it  would  hitch  up  its  back  and 
fire  everything  off  onto  the  floor  well  out  of  your 
reach — and  if  you  showed  any  marked  annoyance  it 
would  fire  you  after  them.  There  was  not  a  day  that 
it  did  not  shoot  Miss  Linda's  pillow  from  under  her 
head,  and  twice  I  saw  it  slide  her  bodily  to  the  floor. 

I  had  found  just  one  thing  that  could  hold  on  to 
this  slippery  fiend,  and  that  was  a  blanket — but  who  on 
earth  wanted  to  lie  on  a  blanket  in  the  summer  time? 
So  there  Miss  Linda  lay  on  the  glassy-surfaced  "sofa," 
with  a  chair  pushed  close  up  to  it  to  prevent  her  sliding 
off,  and  I  on  the  floor  slowly  fanning  her  and  hoping 
she  might  be  asleep,  she  was  so  very  quiet.  But  no, 
she  was  not  sleeping,  for  presently,  without  opening  her 
eyes  or  making  the  least  movement,  she  whispered: 
"Little  sister,  you  saved  three  of  us  much  grief  and 
pain  by  your  caution  and  your  thoughtfulness  to-day, 
and  now,  dear,  I  will  explain  about  the  picture." 

I  turned  hot  and  shame-faced,  and  rubbing  my  head 
upon  her  hands  like  an  affectionate  young  puppy,  I 
muttered  confusedly,  "  that,  if  she  pleased,  I'd  rather 
not!  "  But  she  smiled ;  not  her  family  smile,  but  a  sad, 
slow  smile,  and  stroked  my  hair  and  went  on  gently  :  "  It 
is  right  that  you  should  know.  He,  the  man  of  the  ! 
miniature,  was  to  have  been  my — "  She  stopped;  she 
swallowed  hard  at  something.  She  moistened  her  lips 
and  started  again :  "  He — at  least,  I  was  to  have  been 


14  A  Silent  Singer 

his  wife!  I  wore  his  ring— I — I — "  Suddenly  her 
eyes  opened  wide  on  mine,  and  she  said  with  a  sort  of 
rush  :  "  Child,  child  !  Heaven  will  have  to  be  a  very 
glorious  place  to  make  me  forget  the  happiness  I 
knew  with  him !  and  I  loved  him  so  !  oh,  I  loved 
him  so  !  " 

In  a  very  transport  of  sympathy  I  broke  in  :  "  But 
he  was  good,  I  am  sure  he  was !  and  he  don't  look  as  if 
he  were  dead  ?  " 

She  smiled  kindly  at  me,  and  fully  understood 
my  blundering,  hurried  words :  "  Yes,  dear,"  she  said, 
"  you  are  right ;  he  is  not  dead,  and  he  is  good !  A  little 
hard,  perhaps — "  Her  eyes  closed  again.  "  Yes, 
perhaps,  a  little  hard,  but — well,  men  must  be  hard  or 
they  cannot  succeed!  We  were  very  happy,  dear! 
Papa — "  Her  brows  drew  together  quickly  for  a  moment; 
— "  papa  gave  his  consent.  He — Roger — had  a 
noble  voice  ;  we  sang  together  at  the  chureh,  we  rode, 
we  planned — we  planned — "  A  pause,  along,  long,  shiv 
ering  sigh,  and  then :  "  Papa  changed  his  mind.  I  was 
not  of  age — even  had  I  been,  I  had  been  bred  up  to 
such  strict  obedience — I — oh,  I  don't  know! — but 
Roger,  he  could  not  bear  dependence  on  another  man's 
whims  for  two  long  years !  He  was  one  of  the  college 
professors  ;  he  needed  quiet,  regularity,  positively  set 
tled  plans,  or  the  quality  of  his  work  might  suffer ! 
Papa  broke  his  promise — he  gave  no  reason.  Roger 
said  '  he  was  jealous  of  us.'  I  only  know  he  broke 
his  promise !  Roger  would  not  wait !  Father  com- 


A  Silent  Singer  15 

manded — he  demanded !  They  were  two  angry  men — 
I  stood  between  them,  dear — and  I  am  crushed !  " 

"  Oh,"  I  cried,  "he  did  not  love  you  hard  enough, 
dear  Miss  Linda  !  What  was  enduring  two  years  of 
Mr.  Hyler  compared  to  enduring  a  whole  life  without 
you  ?"  It  was  not  exactly  a  polite  way  to  speak  of  the 
reverend  gentleman  or  of  her  lover,  and  she  laid  her  finger 
on  my  lips,  as  she  resumed :  "  Papa  does  not  under 
stand — time  has  passed— but,  oh,  child,  child ! — each 
day  of  my  life — I  lose  my  love — each  day  the  pain  of 
it — is  fresh  and  new !  Had  papa  known  of  the  picture 
to-day — he  might  have  understood — he  might  have — 
suffered  remorse — and  he  is  old  and — and — 4  As  we 
forgive  those  who  trespass  against  us  !  " 

Her  whisper  died  away  on  the  last  word ;  she  lay 
quite  still.  I  fanned  her  gently,  slowly,  and  kissed  her 
little,  paper-dry  hands  now  and  then,  and  by-and-by  the 
smile  faded  quite  away,  the  sweet  lips  took  a  down 
ward  droop,  the  heavy  waves  of  her  brown  hair  made 
her  face  look  piteously  small  and  wasted,  and,  with  hot 
tears  dropping  down  into  my  lap,  I  took  my  first  look 
at  the  real  Linda.  The  little  songster,  with  the  song 
stopped  in  her  throat !  The  loving  little  woman,  with 
her  heart  crushed  in  her  breast ! — and  as  it  was  my  first 
so  it  was  my  last  look  at  that  Linda,  for  it  was  the  only 
time  I  ever  saw  her  asleep,  and  when  awake  she  was 
always  on  dress-parade,  and  wore  her  smile  as  an  officer 
would  his  sword. 

Shortly  after  this  I  began  to  worry,  for  though  I  was 


16  A  Silent  Singer 

still  in  ignorance,  even  I  could  see  that  as  these  hot  days 
went  panting  by  each  one  of  them  took  with  it  some 
small  portion  of  dear  Miss  Linda's  strength.  The  dan 
delion  in  seed,  lifting  in  air  its  phantom,  downy 
globe,  was  scarcely  whiter,  lighter  or  more  frail  than 
she.  Then  I  was  worried  about  myself.  The  family 
were  taking  suddenly  too  deep  an  interest  in  me, 
my  tastes  and  my  desires.  I  was  even  asked  what  I 
would  do  under  such  and  such  circumstances,  or  how  I 
would  decide  between  this  claim  and  that,  and  when  I 
entered  a  room  the  "  grown-ups  "  were  almost  sure,  of 
late,  to  stop  speaking,  or  they  would  clear  their 
throats  and  speak  of  the  weather  with  an  elephantine 
lightness  that  could  not  deceive  a  goggle-eyed  infant 
negotiating  teeth  with  a  rubber  ring. 

Once  my  very  own  mother,  speaking  excitedly,  too, 
stopped  short  when  I  came  in,  and  though  I  looked  and 
looked  at  her  with  forty-horse  questioning  power  in  my 
eyes,  she  answered  nothing,  and  my  most  penetrating 
and  gimlet-like  glance  finally  brought  out  a  very  brief, 
not  to  say  sharp,  suggestion  that  I  sit  down  and  stare 
at  my  spelling-book  awhile — which,  like  most  good 
advice,  was  neither  kindly  given  nor  willingly  followed. 
So  I  was  worrying,  when  one  morning  I  stood  listening 
to  Miss  Linda's  unspeakably  sad  music.  She  was 
playing  with  fervor  and  more  strength  than  usual,  and 
suddenly  she  was  seized  with  a  paroxysm  of  coughing. 
Instead  of  going  to  her  at  once,  I  ran  into  the  next 
room  for  some  troches  that  were  on  a  table,  and  before 


A  Silent  Singer  17 

I  could  return  with  them  she  had  fallen  and  was  lying 
motionless  on  the  floor.  My  cry  and  the  shouts  of 
little  Arthur  gave  the  alarm.  Mrs.  Hyler  entered 
first.  She  went  very  white,  but  she  stooped  and  lifted 
Linda  like  a  child,  and  I  thought  it  strange  that,  as  she 
earned  her,  she  held  a  handkerchief  to  her  face.  Mr. 
Hyler  appearing  suddenly,  exclaimed  in  excited  tones : 
"  Ice — ice  !  Salt — linen  !  "  and,  taking  these  exclama 
tions  as  orders,  I  ran  forward,  intending  to  carry  the 
message  to  my  mother.  At  that  moment  Mrs.  Hyler 
stretched  out  her  hand  to  push  the  door  more  widely 
open,  and  on  the  breast  of  her  light  dress,  just  where 
Miss  Linda's  head  was  resting,  a  great,  red  stain  was 
slowly,  evilly  spreading.  I  glanced  from  it  to  the  hand 
kerchief  in  her  hand,  and  it  was  red !  red ! !  red ! ! ! 
With  stiffening  lips,  I  whispered:  "Miss  Linda — oh, 
Miss  Linda !  "  and  suddenly  there  came  a  mighty  roar 
ing  in  my  ears — a  cold  air  on  my  face,  and  as  I  sank 
into  the  windy  darkness,  afar  off  I  heard  a  voice  cry : 
"There  she  goes!  Catch  the  child — ah!  she  saw  it 
all." 

Yes,  in  very  truth  I  had  seen  all!  And  when, 
with  a  general  sense  of  discomfort,  I  opened  my  eyes 
upon  the  sunlight  again,  I  found  myself  attended  by 
two  of  the  seven  sons,  who  cast  water  on  me  with  lavish 
hand  and  pounded  me  with  an  affectionate  brutality 
that  left  marks  by  which  my  fainting  might  be  remem 
bered  for  days  after.  I  looked  stupidly  at  them  at 
first  and  wondered,  and  then  I  saw  that  great,  red,  grow- 


18  A  Silent  Singer 

ing  stain  beneath  the  wasted,  white  face,  and  I  broke 
into  such  sobs  as  fairly  frightened  them.  I  was  crouch 
ing  on  the  top  step  of  the  porch,  with  my  feet  drawn  up 
and  my  arms  and  head  resting  on  my  knees,  and  as  I 
glanced  downward  I  saw  four  bare,  brown,  boyish  feet, 
and  noted  how  restless  they  were.  With  my  heart 
almost  bursting  with  pain,  some  portion  of  my  brain 
made  a  note  of  the  fact  that  one  of  the  four  great  toes 
before  me  had  received  a  recent  cut  that  must 
have  been  given  by  a  hoe.  Then  the  elder  one 
thumped  me  kindly  on  the  back  and  said :  "  Don't, 
Carrie,  don't!" — and  the  other  one  said,  in  a  husky 
voice  :  "  Why,  didn't  yo'  never  know  at  all  that  sister 
Linda  was  agoin'  to  die?" 

I  gave  an  agonized  cry  at  the  words,  and  the  elder 
boy  exclaimed :  "  What  did  yer  want  to  say  that  for  ? 
For  two  cents  I'd  give  yer  a  good  lickin' !  " — while  he, 
of  the  toe,  said :  "  No,  yer  won't  give  me  a  lickin'  for 
two  cents,  nor  for  one  cent,  neither !  " 

"Why  won't  I?" 

"  Why  didn't  Jack  eat  his  supper,  eh  ?  " 

And  then  they  grabbed  at  each  other  over  my  head, 
but  a  grave  voice  said :  "  Boys,  I  never  was  so  shamed 
by  you  before  !  " 

It  was  Alfred,  the  eldest  of  the  seven,  and  a  "  grown 
up"  himself.  He  paid  no  attention  to  their  explana 
tions — their  recriminations ;  he  simply  stooped,  and, 
lifting  my  shaking  body  in  his  arms,  carried  me  into  the 
house.  As  he  was  going  up  the  narrow  stairs  a  splash 


A  Silent  Singer  19 

came  on  my  cheek  that  was  no  tear  of  mine.  A  thrill 
went  through  me  from  head  to  foot — I  lifted  my 
swollen  lids  to  look  at  him.  His  face  wore  that  gray 
tint  paleness  brings  to  dark  people,  and  in  his  always 
sad  eyes  I  saw  slow  tears  gathering.  I  buried  my  own 
face  in  his  bosom,  and  laying  my  shaking,  little  hand 
across  his  eyes,  I  sobbed :  "  Don't,  oh,  please  don't ! 
She  couldn't  bear  it  if  she  knew  !  " 

He  took  me  to  my  mother's  room  and,  placing  me 
high  against  the  pillows,  deftly  tied  a  wet  handkerchief 
about  my  hot  brows,  and  then  he  stood  looking  down 
at  me  for  a  moment  before  he  said,  with  a  quivering 
voice :  "  You  know  now,  don't  you,  Carrie?  " 

I  nodded  my  head  and  wrung  my  hands  silently. 
"  Yes,"  he  went  on,  "  she  is  going  soon,  dear — and — 
and — it's  rough !  Good  God !  Carrie  !  if  you  could 
have  seen  her  three  years  ago — if  you  could  have  heard 
her  sing !  I  think  sometimes  my  father  is  a  devil ! 
There — there — I  didn't  mean  to  say  that! — but  see, 
dear,  little  girl !  "  He  knelt  down  quickly  by  the  bed 
and  took  my  hands  in  his.  He  spoke  rapidly — pressing 
my  fingers  tightly,  to  hold  my  attention :  "  They  are 
going  to  ask  you  to  do  something — to-morrow,  perhaps 
— this  awful  attack  of  Linda's  will  hurry  things — I 
can't  tell  you  what  they  will  ask ;  I  have  not  the  time, 
but,  Carrie,  refuse!  Don't  be  badgered — don't  be 
coaxed — not  even  by  darling  Linda !  One  martyr  is 
enough  !  Refuse,  refuse  !  for,  oh,  we  will  be  a  hard  lot 
when  sister  has  left  us  !  " 


20  A  Silent  Singer 

His  body  shook  with  sobs;  for  a  moment  he  let  his 
head  rest  on  the  edge  of  the  bed.  Then  he  rose  and 
left  the  room  to  go  to  his  own,  where  I  heard  him  lock 
himself  in.  And  that  day  ended  my  ignorance  about 
Miss  Linda's  fate,  and  it  also  ended  Miss  Linda's 
music — she  had  played  her  last  note. 

That  I  had  received  a  shock  was  evident  to  the  whole 
family,  and  I  heard  the  sick  girl  say  to  her  father : 
"  Wait,  papa,  dear,  don't  speak  to  Carrie  yet — give 
her  a  little  time." 

But  my  grief  was  greater  than  my  curiosity,  and  I 
never  asked  myself  what  he  could  have  to  speak  to  me 
about,  or  what  he  could  possibly  ask  of  me.  I  only 
thought  of  her — to  fan  her,  hand  her  a  drink,  bring 
her  a  flower,  carry  a  message,  or,  above  all,  during 
that  afternoon  hour,  to  crouch  at  her  side  and  watch 
her  "silent  singing,"  as  I  called  it.  She  never  seemed 
to  do  it  before  her  mother  or  any  one  but  me.  But 
while  she  was  supposed  to  be  taking  a  nap,  and  I 
fanned  her  quietly,  she  would  lie,  with  closed  eyes,  and 
softly  beat  time  with  her  shadowy  hand,  and  her  throat 
would  swell  and  her  lips  move,  but  no  sound  came  ; 
and  through  much  watching  of  her,  with  my  heart  in 
my  eyes,  I  came  to  know  what  she  sang.  Often  it  was 
"  Lead,  Kindly  Light,"  but  more  often,  to  my  torture 
now,  it  was  that  expression  of  absolute  submission, 
"  Just  as  I  Am,  Without  One  Plea."  And  when  her 
pale  lips  found  the  words,  "  O,  Lamb  of  God,  I  Come," 
I  would  bite  my  lips  and  hold  my  breath,  that  I  might 


A  Silent  Singer  21 

not  break  into  the  wild  sobs  that  would  have  sore 
distressed  her. 

I  had  not  liked  the  Rev.  Hyler  at  any  time,  but 
when  I  learned  that,  minister  as  he  was,  the  sole  relig 
ious  observance  for  the  family  was  a  hasty,  almost 
angry,  snatch  at  a  blessing  on  the  food,  while  for 
visitors  there  were  family  prayers  both  night  and 
morning,  my  dislike  became  marked.  Linda  saw  it  as 
she  saw  everything,  and  unable  to  defend  him,  she  suf 
fered  and  was  ashamed,  but  kept  silent  until  that  hot 
afternoon,  when  she  said :  "  Little  sister,  you  are  not 
fond  of  papa,  but  try,  dear — to  put  out  of  your  mind 
— that  matter  of  the  prayers,  and  only  think  how  old 
and  tired  and  tried  he  is — and"  (I  heard  his  step 
approaching,  and  his  dry,  little  cough) — "  and  listen  to 
him  kindly — and  try  to  do  what  he  asks  of  you — try, 
dear,  for  all  our  sakes." 

And  then,  to  my  bewilderment,  the  Rev.  Hyler  and 
his  worn  and  helpless  wife  made  solemn  entry  and 
seated  themselves,  and  I,  having  risen  respectfully, 
stood  there  and  received  the  blood-curdling  proposal 
that  I  should  become  the  sister  of  the  seven — the 
adopted  daughter  of  the  Rev.  Hyler !  Amazement 
kept  me  silent,  and  they  went  on  to  explain,  with  their 
eyes  turned  away  from  Linda's  face,  "how  bad  it 
would  be  for  the  boys  to  be  without  a  sister's  influence 
— and  how  they  had  been  greatly  gratified,  though 
much  surprised,  to  see  that  the  younger  boys  had  taken 
a  strong  liking  to  me,"  and,  glancing  at  their  two  grim 


22  A  Silent  Singer 

faces,  I  wondered  what  they  would  say  or  do  if  they 
knew  that  their  boys'  liking  was  founded  upon  a 
generous  but  downright  falsehood,  told  by  me  to  save 
the  second  youngest  from  a  most  unjust  and  cruel 
thrashing;  after  which  I  had  gone  at  once  to  my 
mother,  confessed  the  lie  and  accepted  my  punishment 
with  a  cheerful  acquiescence  that  filled  the  seven  with 
admiration  and  made  them  declare,  with  enthusiastic 
vulgarity,  that  I  was  "  the  biggest  thing  on  ice!" 

At  last  it  dawned  upon  them  that,  for  mere  form's 
sake,  they  should  ask  an  answer  from  me,  and  it  came 
in  a  swift  and  emphatic  "  NO  !"  They  were  surprised 
and  angry,  but  to  all  their  half-sneering  questions — as 
to  why  and  wherefore — wide-eyed  and  amazed,  I  had 
but  one  word  for  answer:  "Mother!"  The  Rev. 
Hyler  answered  :  "  My  wife  will  be  your  mother  !"- 
and  I  almost  laughed;  then  with  large  collusiveness  I 
replied:  "  But  my  mother  loves  me,  sir  !" 

Miss  Linda  caught  my  hand  and  said :  "  Think, 
Carrie — a  home — brothers — father  and  mother  to  love 
you." 

I  looked  at  him  a  walking  bitterness,  I  looked  at  her 
a  withering  disappointment  and  said :  "  No !  no,  dear 
Miss  Linda,  they  love  you,  but  they  would  not  love  me 
— and"  I  triumphantly  added,  "they  will  not  tell 
you  so !" 

She  turned  questioningly  to  them,  but  the  challenge 
was  not  accepted.  Angrily  her  father  bade  me  go,  say 
ing,  "  I  might  know  what  hunger  was  some  day." 


A  Silent  Singer  23 

But  I  answered  cheerfully:  "Oh,  I  have  been 
hungry  sometimes,  and  so  has  mother,  but  we  were 
together,  so  it  was  all  right.  You  know  when  you're 
orphans  and  widows,  you  always  come  all  right " — a 
speech  that  was  as  perfect  in  faith  as  it  was  imperfect 
in  grammar. 

The  Eev.  Hyler,  with  a  vindictive  gleam  in  his 
eye,  "hoped  I  might  be  hungry  again,  that  I  might 
appreciate  what  I  was  rejecting " — and  Miss  Linda 
kissed  me  with  a  disappointed  face,  and  whispered  for 
me  to  go,  now. 

After  that  life  became  intolerable  there,  and  soon 
there  came  a  morning  when,  ready  for  an  early  start,  I 
crept  into  Miss  Linda's  room  and  knelt  down  by  her  bed, 
and  with  hands  tight-clasped  we  looked — and  looked — 
and  looked,  and  spoke  not  one  word  between  us.  Then 
there  came  a  call  for  me,  and  I  rose  to  go.  As  I  bent 
over  to  kiss  her,  she  lifted  a  thin,  little,  warning  hand 
and  tried  to  turn  my  face  away,  but  with  a  smothered 
cry  of  indignation,  I  caught  her  hand  and  held  it 
while  I  slipped  my  other  arm  beneath  her  incredibly 
frail  shoulders,  and  lifting  her,  I  kissed  her  shadowy 
hair,  her  brow,  her  cheeks  and  her  pale,  dry  lips.  Then 
with  a  long,  long  look  into  her  dark,  sapphire-blue  eyes, 
I  laid  her  down  and  went  out,  and  saw  her  no  more 
forever.  As  I  closed  the  door  gently  behind  me,  I 
heard,  for  the  last  time,  the  husky  whisper  that  had 
grown  so  dear  to  me,  and  all  it  said  was,  "  Little 
sister!" 


24  A  Silent  Singer 

I  stumbled  down  the  stairs,  and  slipping  my  hand 
into  my  mother's,  we  faced  the  world  once  more,  I 
having  faith  to  believe  that  somewhere  in  its  mighty 
length  and  breadth  there  was  a  home  for  us,  and  that 
together  we  should  somehow  find  it. 

For  two  years  the  gentle,  little  silent-singer  had  been 
lying  in  her  lonely  and  reflected  grave,  when  I  paid 
my  only  visit  to  the  Hyler  family.  Circumstances  had 
brought  me  into  the  neighborhood,  and  I  felt  in  duty 
bound  to  "  pay  my  respects,"  as  they  called  it.  Poor 
Alfred's  fear  seemed  to  have  been  justified,  for  the 
neighbors  declared  that  since  Linda's  death  the  boys 
had  become  a  "  hard  lot,"  and  seemed  actually  to  be 
growing  more  boldly  bad  week  by  week. 

The  Rev.  Hyler  and  his  wife  at  first  seemed  to 
derive  a  sort  of  sour  satisfaction  from  my  visit  to  them. 
The  boys  received  me  with  noisy  greetings  and  many 
poundings  on  the  shoulders,  and  young  savages  that 
they  were,  they  expressed  their  hospitality  by  the 
making  of  gifts,  such  as  horse-hair  rings,  matched  jack- 
stones,  and  several  chunks  of  not-too-clean  flag-root, 
both  the  smell  and  taste  of  which  were  particularly 
offensive  to  me. 

Before  tea  was  over  all  the  kindness  had  gone  out 
of  Mrs.  Hyler's  face,  and  it  began  to  wear  the  look  I 
had  known  well  in  former  days,  of  dull,  sullen  dissatis 
faction.  Suddenly,  apropos  of  nothing,  she  said  :  "I 
suppose,  Carrie,  you  have  heard  all  about  Linda  ?" 

With  some  hesitation  I  answered  :  "  Yes,  I  think 


A  Silent  Singer  25 

so.  I  heard  that  she — she  went  away  in  her  sleep,  and 
that  you  held  her  hand — but  never  knew  when — 

"  Oh  yes,"  she  broke  in,  angrily,  "  and  they  told  you, 
too,  that  I  had  sat  there  asleep,  or  I  would  have 
known — 1  know  their  tales." 

"  Oh  dear,  Mrs.  Hyler,"  I  cried,"  indeed  no  one  ever 
implied  such  a  cruel  thing !  They  only  said  she  passed 
so  gently  that  no  one  could  have  known  the  actual 
moment." 

She  seemed  somewhat  mollified  by  this  assurance, 
and  went  on  more  rapidly,  and  as  she  spoke  she  slowly 
turned  her  cup  round  and  round  in  its  saucer  :  "  Linda 
had  been  so  much  better  that  last  day  that  it  seemed 
almost  foolish  when  she  expressed  her  wish  to  see  each 
one  of  the  boys  alone  for  a  few  minutes.  I  told  her 
so,  but  she  only  smiled  and  said,  '  so  much  the  better 
for  the  boys.'  The  memory  of  her  last  words  to  them 
should  not  be  associated  with  suffering  and  pain,  and 
so  she  had  her  way,  and  held  each  brother  in  her  arms 
and  whispered  some  last  words — but  smiling,  smiling 
all  the  time." 

I  clasped  my  hands  tight  beneath  the  table,  and  my 
heart  seemed  to  beat  out  those  cruel  words,  "  smiling, 
smiling  all  the  time,"  and  I  whispered  "  Miss  Linda, 
oh,  dear  Miss  Linda !" 

"  Yes,  and  she  had  a  little  gift  for  each — and — well, 
later  in  the  afternoon  she  was  lying  on  the  sofa,  her 
eyes  were  closed,  and  beneath  the  cover  her  hand 
seemed  to  be  moving  all  the  time.  Perhaps  she  was 


26  A  Silent  Singer 

nervous,  but  she  was  saying,  or  repeating-to-herself-like, 
the  words — 

I  could  not  help  it — from  my  lips  sprang  the  line : 
"  Just  as  I  Am,  Without  One  Plea !  " 

There  followed  a  sort  of  general  exclamation,  and 
Mr.  Hyler  leaned  forward,  saying  sharply:  "How's 
this  ?  Who  gave  you  your  information — not  the  boys, 
I'm  sure?" 

Hot  and  confused,  I  said  :  "  Nobody  told  me,  I  had 
only  guessed,  "  (his  disbelief  was  palpable)  "  because 
dear  Miss  Linda  was  so  very  fond  of  that  hymn,  and 
sang  it  nearly  every  day  to  herself." 

And  Mr.  Hyler  sneeringly  assured  me  that,  as  Linda 
has  lost  her  voice  more  than  a  year  before  her  death, 
my  statement  had  at  least  the  element  of  surprise 
about  it !  "  I  sat  mute — I  could  not  explain  to  them 
about  the  silent  singing. 

Then  Mrs.  Hyler  took  up  the  hateful  ball  and  sent 
it  rolling  toward  me  with  the  suggestion,  "  that  as  I 
was  a  good  guesser,  perhaps  I  had  guessed  all  that  she 
had  been  going  to  say?" 

I  steadied  my  voice  and  answered,  respectfully, 
uthat  I  had  not  guessed  anything  else,"  and  with 
mock  surprise  she  said:  "Indeed?"  and  then  went  on: 
"After  a  silence  Linda  spoke  of  you,  Carrie." 

I  looked  up  joyfully — my  mortification  all  forgotten : 
"She  said  you  were  a  remarkable  girl  "(even  at  that 
moment  I  was  proud  that  she  had  not  called  me  child, 
but  "girl").  "I  told  her  you  were  well  enough,  but  in 


A  Silent  Singer  27 

no  way  remarkable.  She  insisted,  however,  and  then 
added,  that  if  I  ever  saw  you  again  I  was  to  give  you 
a  remembrance.  I  thought  the  gift  she  chose  very  odd 
and  unattractive,  but  she  said"  (how  slowly  she  was 
speaking  now)  "  she  said  you  would  understand  it." 

She  paused  so  long  that  I  looked  up.  Her  eyes  were 
like  a  ferret's,  and  Mr.  Hyler,  with  his  head  in  his  hand, 
was  watching  me  from  between  his  fingers. 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  I  whispered,  faintly,  vaguely.  Then 
she  spoke  loudly,  roughly:  "She  told  me  to  give  you 
a  handkerchief,  and  say  to  you,  the  longer  you  lived 
the  better  you  would  understand  her  gratitude,  for 
your  golden  silence" 

I  felt  the  blood  fairly  pushing  through  my  veins — 
my  downcast  eyes  noted  that  the  very  backs  of  my  hands 
were  turning  red.  Then  Mrs.  Hyler  struck  the  table 
sharply  and  said:  "Well,  was  she  right — do  you 
understand?" 

I  had  no  time  to  answer,  for  Mr.  Hyler  sprang  up 
and,  violently  thrusting  his  chair  against  the  wall, 
cried :  "  What  folly  to  ask  the  question — of  course  she 
understands !  Is  not  her  knowledge  burning  red  in 
her  face?" 

He  stepped  across  the  room  and  flung  wide  the  door 
leading  to  his  study,  as  he  termed  it — the  boys  called 
it  "  The  Place  of  Horrors,"  because  they  were  always 
thrashed  there  with  peculiar  malevolence  and  ingenuity, 
and  generally  unjustly — they  seldom  got  punished  when 
they  deserved  it.  There  he  waved  me  in.  But  grave 


28  A  Silent  Singer 

and  stern,  Alfred's  voice  came :  "  Father — father ! 
Carrie  is  but  a  child — she  is  here  alone,  and  she  is  a 
visitor!" 

"  Visitor  or  no  visitor !"  was  the  answer,  "  I  will 
not  permit  this  stranger,  this  mere  nobody,  to  have 
knowledge  of  my  daughter  that  is  unknown  to  me !" 

With  wistful  voice  I  meekly  asked  Mrs.  Hyler : 
"Please  ma'am,  may  I  have  the  handkerchief?"  and 
she  sharply  answered :  "  No — no !  you  shall  have  no 
handkerchief"  (Alfred  quickly  left  the  room  a 
moment)  "  until  you  have  confessed  every  word  that 
ever  passed  between  you  and  Linda !" 

Here  Alfred  came  in  again  and,  leaning  over, 
placed  in  my  hand  the  little  gift,  and  kissing  me,  gently 
said  :  "  There,  Carrie,  it  was  Linda's  own  !"  Then  as  he 
passed  his  mother,  he  laid  his  hand  on  her  shoulder  and 
said  :  "  Dear  mother,  it  was  not  yours  to  withhold— 
we  must  all  honor  sister's  wishes." 

Mr.  Hyler  fairly  shouted :  "  Take  your  seat  and  be 
silent,  sir !  As  for  you ,"  (turning  to  me)  "  into  that 
room !  I  will  know  what  conduct  my  daughter  was 
guilty  of  that  she  should  be  grateful  for  the  shelter  of 
your  '  golden  silence' !  " 

The  four  eldest  boys  sprang  furiously  to  their  feet, 
but  the  cry  that  rang  the  wildest  in  that  room,  that 
might  have  been  the  cry  of  a  woman  grown,  came  from 
my  lips.  I  stood  gasping  a  moment,  and  all  I  thought 
was :  "  Miss  Linda,  oh  my  Miss  Linda — he  insulted 
you — he — he,  whom  you  always  spared  !"  And  then 


A  Silent  Singer  29 

I  began  to  grow  cold — bodily,  mentally !  My  shame- 
facedness,  my  fear,  all  fell  away  from  me.  I  must 
have  gone  very  white,  for  No.  5,  a  rather  timid,  gentle 
boy,  said  lowly :  "  Oh,  mother,  will  Carrie  faint  ?  She 
won't  die  too,  will  she?" 

I  lifted  my  eyes  to  the  Rev.  Hyler,  and  I  felt  a  great 
contempt  for  him ;  while  down  deep  in  my  heart  there 
was  growing  a  bitter  anger  that  merged,  at  last,  into 
a  vindictive  longing  to  see  him  suffer.  I  threw  up  my 
head  and  marched  into  uThe  Place  of  Horrors,"  and 
turning,  waited  for  him  to  follow  me.  lie  paused  and 
looked  at  me  with  the  same  gleam  in  his  eyes  that 
shone  there  the  day  he  wished  "  I  might  know  hunger 
again."  Then,  with  petty  triumph,  he  exclaimed : 
"When  you  leave  this  room  I  shall  understand  this 
thing!" 

But  he  was  only  partially  right,  for  when  I  left  that 
room  he  understood  several  things.  He  banged  the 
door  shut,  and  then  seated  himself  at  his  writing  table' 
leaving  me  to  stand  at  his  opposite  side,  as  a  culprit 
stands  before  a  judge.  I  looked  at  him  and  saw  all 
the  narrow,  gray  man's  meanness,  his  eager  curiosity 
that  was  like  that  of  a  scandal-monger's.  Yet,  I  gave 
him  one  chance,  for  when  he  demanded:  "Well,  now, 
Miss?"  I  said:  "Mr.  Hyler,  you  must  know,  there  is 
nothing  wrong  about  dear  Miss  Linda's  kind  message 
to  me — she  simply—  "  "  Stop,  where  you  are !"  he  cried. 
"  I'll  have  no  prevarication !  Where  there  is  secrecy 
there  is  shame!  No  one  ever  conceals  what  is  right! 


30  A  Silent  Singer 

I'll  have  the  truth,  now,  and  the  meaning  of  this  mes- 


And  I  answered :  "  Yes,  sir,  you  shall  have  the  truth !" 
and  I  told  him  briefly  of  Miss  Linda's  silent  singing, 
and  of  her  undying  sorrow  for  her  lost  lover.  As  I 
spoke,  utter  amazement  grew  upon  his  face — he  stam 
mered  out:  "Why — why — what  are  you  saying?  She 
never  spoke  of  him !  Why — nearly  three  years  had 
passed — since — since — the — r — the  break — and  'er — 
you  don't  know  what  you  are  talking  about — she  did 
not  grieve !" 

"Oh,  yes,  she  did!"  I  tranquilly  replied.  "That 
was  why  she  would  never  have  a  light  in  her  room  at 
night  for  fear  the  picture  might  be  seen.  She  slept 
with  it  beneath  her  cheek,  and  washed  it  with  her  tears, 
and  dried  it  with  her  kisses.  Oh,  yes,  she  grieved !" 

His  eyes  began  to  look  sunken  and  his  face  was 
working  convulsively.  Then  I  told  him  how  I  had 
found  the  picture  and  wrapped  it  in  a  handkerchief 
and  had  given  it  silently  to  her  in  his  presence,  and  she 
had  been  grateful,  not  because  she  was  ashamed  of  her 
love  or  her  sorrow,  but  because  she  wished  to  spare 
him  suffering.  And  with  his  clenched  fist  he  struck 
the  table,  blow  after  blow,  crying  furiously :  "  You 
lie — you  baggage — you  lie !"  Then  suddenly  turning 
his  trembling  hands  palms  upward,  he  pleaded : 
"Carrie — tell  me  that  you  lie!"  But  coldly  I  answered: 
"  I  do  not  lie  at  all,  sir — and  you  know  I  do  not — 
besides,  here  are  dear  Miss  Linda's  very  own  words : 


A  Silent  Singer  '  31 

"  Every  day  of  my  life  I  lose  my  love — and  every  day 
the  pain  is  fresh  and  new !" 

His  eyes  roamed  from  side  to  side — little  bubbles 
formed  in  the  corners  of  his  lips,  his  hand  went  up  to 
his  throat  and  tried  to  loosen  his  collar,  and  I  could 
just  hear  the  whispered  words  that  left  his  lips : 
"Linda — Linda — Linda!"  and  then,  I  struck  my  last 
blow  at  him.  (Oh,  Miss  Linda,  to-day,  I  ask  your 
pardon,  but  then  I  was  hard  and  pitiless,  as  only  the 
very  young  can  be.)  And  I  went  coldl  yon  :  "  She  said 
to  me,  she  did  not  wish  you  to  know  of  her  sorrow,  be 
cause,  perhaps  " — I  leaned  on  the  table  and  brought  my 
self  nearer  to  him — "perhaps  you  might  feel  remorse  I" 

He  threw  one  hand  above  his  head  and  gave  a  cry : 
"Perhaps?  perhaps?  only  perhaps?"  and  suddenly 
fell  forward  on  the  table,  with  outspread  arms,  and  I 
heard  him  call  upon  the  God  he  had  never  truly  served 
and  ask  the  mercy  he  had  denied  his  own  child  !  And, 
as  I  left  the  room  by  a  second  door  opening  into  the 
entry  where  hung  my  hat  and  cloak,  the  vindictive 
devil  that  possessed  me  made  me  say  quite  clearly : 
"  As  a  father  pitieth  his  own  children  !" 

I  was  tying  on  my  hat  when  I  distinctly  heard  the 
boys  quarreling  as  to  whether  or  no  there  would  be 
prayers  held  in  my  honor  —some  saying,  "  yes,  because 
I  was  company,"  and  the  younger  ones  arguing  that,  as 
I  was  not  a  "  grown-up,"  "  there' d  ba  no  family  pray 
ers,"  then  suddenly  there  was  a  howl,  and  I  knew  they 
were  coming  to  blows. 


32  A  Silent  Singer 

I  slipped  from  the  house,  without  good-bye  to  any 
one,  and  as  I  passed  the  study  window,  I  glanced  in 
and  saw  the  "  gray  head  "  bowed  upon  the  table  and 
two  hands  beating  feebly,  aimlessly,  and  suddenly  I 
seemed  to  hear  Miss  Linda's  husky  whisper  saying : 
"  And  only  remember  how  old  and  tired  and  tried  he 
is,  dear !" 

And  I  cried  aloud :  "  Forgive  me,  forgive  me,  dear 
Miss  Linda — I  did  it  because  I  loved  you  so !"  and 
looking  across  the  years — I  say  now — I  love  you  so, 
dear  LITTLE  SILENT  SINGER. 


An  Old  Hulk 


An  Old  Hulk 

Old  Thomas  Brockwell — sometimes  called  Bull 
Brockwell,  he  of  the  mighty  thews  and  sinews — had 
been  for  some  years  a  widower,  and  had  he  remained 
a  widower  I  should  have  been  the  poorer  by  one  good 
friend — a  lowly  one — oh,  yes — but  you  know  that  true 
friendship  is  one  of  the  few  things  the  lowly  can  afford 
to  give. 

But  the  broad-shouldered,  ruddy-f  aced  old  Briton  had 
married  an  American  wife  in  the  person  of  the  mother 
of  my  closest  chum — and  so  I  learned  many  things 
about  the  narrow,  hard,  honest  old  giant — things  that 
sometimes  rilled  my  eyes  with  tears  of  laughter ;  some 
times  with  stinging  drops  of  anguished  pity.  The  only 
surprising  thing  about  Brock  well's  second  marriage 
was  that  it  had  not  taken  place  years  before — for 
given  a  working-class  Englishman  of  middle  age — own 
ing  a  house  of  his  own — you  have  the  worst  material 
in  the  world  for  a  widower.  But,  like  most  of  his  race, 
he  was  a  bit  contrary,  and  when  all  his  housekeepers 
and  his  elderly  unmarried  friends  pursued  him  openly — 
without  even  trying  to  hide  the  matrimonial  lasso  with 
a  few  flowers  of  sentiment  or  delicacy — he  shook  his 
obstinate,  old  head  and  plunged  away. 

Then  Emily  had  arrived  upon  the  scene,  whom  he 
described  as  " a  fine  figure  of  a  woman"  (she  weighed 
something  over  two  hundred),  and  if  she  was  too  inert 


36  A  Silent  Singer 

to  join  in  the  general  pursuit  of  him,  she  was  also  too 
inert  to  a  void  pursuit  herself — hence  the  marriage,  and 
though,  while  praising  her  housekeeping,  he  openly 
expressed  his  doubts  of  her  soul's  salvation — the  new, 
phlegmatic  Mrs.  Brockwell  remained  quite  undisturbed. 
She  was  an  experienced  chewer  of  gum— she  said 
she  had  to  chew  it  to  aid  her  digestion — but  be  that  as  it 
may,  a  certain  mental  clearness,  a  sort  of  spiritual  calm, 
seemed  to  come  to  her  from  her  steady,  cow-like  munch 
ing.  On  the  occasion  of  her  second  marriage  she  had 
contentedly  chewed  until  she  took  her  place  before  the 
lean,  old  minister  ;  then,  having  no  bridesmaid  to  act 
for  her,  she  stuck  her  gum  on  her'  breastpin,  tempora 
rily,  while  she  promised  to  accept  the  big  party  at  her 
side,  and  all  his  belongings,  and  to  nurse  him  for  the 
rest  of  his  life  without  further  remuneration- — and  with 
the  nuptial  benediction  she  had  resumed  her  gum  and 
had  gone  forth  a  slowly-chewing,  contented  bride — and 
011  Sunday,  he  wishing,  probably,  to  do  all  that  was  cour 
teous  and  polite  under  the  circumstances,  took  his  new 
wife  out  to  the  cemetery  and  proceeded  to  introduce  her 
—  as  it  were — to  the  other  members  of  the  family. 

A  hideous  chunk  of  stone  stood  in  the  middle  of  a 
plot,  from  which  the  graves  rayed  out  like  the  spokes 
of  a  wheel — and  old  Thomas,  with  a  cane,  which  so  surely 
only  appeared  on  Sundays  that  a  bad  little  boy  once 
said  :  "  God  made  the  Sabbath  day  and  old  Brock  well's 
cane  !  " — with  this  cane  he  immediately  bored  a  little 
hole  at  the  foot  of  one  grave  and  remarked  :  "I  buried 


An  Old  Hulk  37 

my  first  wife  there  " — and  Emily  brought  her  jaws  to 
with  a  snap,  and  bowed  her  head  slightly,  as  though 
acknowledging  an  introduction.  Then  she  chewed 
again,  and  old  Thomas  yanked  out  the  cane  with  some 
effort,  as  though  Mrs.  Brockwell  No.  1  was  holding  on 
to  it.  Then  he  bored  another  little  hole  at  the  foot  of 
another  grave  with  the  cane  and  announced :  "I  buried 
my  eldest  son  here  " — another  stoppage  of  the  jaws 
and  another  bow — and  so  the  old  "  borer  "  went  on, 
till  each  member  of  the  family  had  been  presented  to 
the  new-comer  in  turn,  and  then  he  gave  the  final  touch 
of  brightness  to  this  very  original  bridal  outing  by 
carefully  measuring  with  the  cane  the  space,  to  see  if 
there  was  enough  left  for  two  more  spokes  to  his  family 
"  wheel  of  death." 

Mrs.  Brockwell  was  wont  to  declare  she  would 
remember  that  day  as  long  as  she  lived.  Not  because 
her  sensibilities  were  wounded,  but  because  she  had 
not  been  constructed  for  rapid  action,  and  she  declared 
she  would  never  have  lived  through  the  homeward  walk 
but  for  the  sustaining  power  of  an  extra  piece  of  gum, 
which  she  luckily  had  in  her  pocket — for  this  was 
the  golden  age  of  the  world  when  women  still  had 
pockets. 

Old  Thomas  Brockwell ;  narrowly — very  narrowly — 
escaped  being  a  religious  monomaniac.  Unquestion 
ably  sincere,  his  religion  was  yet  a  thing  so  warped 
and  bitter  as  to  fill  most  people  with  shrinking  dread. 
He  studied  only  the  Old  Testament,  rarely  reading  the 


38  A  Silent  Singer 

New.  In  his  ears  the  rolling  thunders  of  Sinai 
drowned  the  gentle  "Voice"  preaching  from  the 
"  Mount."  He  believed  in  a  personal  Devil — he 
believed  in  a  material  Hell. 

I  have  never  known  anyone  who  got  as  much 
satisfaction  out  of  the  whole  of  his  religion  as  he  got 
out  of  Hell  alone.  He  talked  of  it,  thought  of  it,  and, 
in  regretful  tones,  told  many  of  his  friends  that  they  were 
going  there.  All  its  accessories  were  dear  to  him.  The 
"  brimstone,"  the  "  burning  lake  "  and  that  "  undying 
worm,"  which  seemed,  in  his  imagination,  something 
between  a  boaconstrictor  and  a  Chinese  dragon,  while 
the  "bottomless  pit"  not  only  gave  him  two  words  to 
roll  sweetly  under  his  tongue,  but  provided  an  ideal  place 
to  shake  frightened  little  boys  over  at  Sunday-school — 
for  he  labored  faithfully  Sunday  after  Sunday  to 
frighten  sinful  youth  into  the  church  or  the  idiot 
asylum. 

His  God  was  a  bitterly  revengeful  God  !  The  Bible 
told  him  to  fear  Him  and  to  obey  His  commandments. 
The  base  of  his  religion  was  "  an  eye  for  an  eye — a 
tooth  for  a  tooth !."  He  knew  no  "  turning  of  the  other 
cheek " — no  "  forgiveness  of  enemies,"  and  many  a 
time,  in  his  efforts  to  show  his  disapproval  of  the  loving, 
gentle,  yet  strong  teaching  of  the  New  Testament,  he 
blasphemed  unconsciously.  Few  things  made  him  so 
angry  as  to  suggest  "a  Hell  of  remorse  " — of  "  tortured 
conscience  " — of  "  mental  agony" — while  a  hint  at 
"  atonement " — a  final  winning  of  forgiveness — was  a 


An  Old  Hulk  39 

rag  so  red  as  to  set  him  madly  charging  through  the 
harshest  and  most  cruelly  just  punishments  meted  out 
in  the  Bible — and  the  worse  one  promised  for  the 
future — Hell!  "  And  their  future  is  now  /"  he  would 
shout,  with  glaring  eyes!  "  Now,  do  you  understand? 
All  these  disobedient  servants  of  the  Lord  are  in  fiery 
torments  now  !  and  will  be  forever  !  Ah !  its  a  big 
place — a  mighty  big  place  ! — far  and  far  away  bigger 
than  Heaven  !  It  has  to  be,  there's  so  many  more  to 
go  there !  " 

Night  and  morning  he  read  a  portion  of  the  Bible, 
and  prayed  loud  and  long — and  right  there  he  came  in 
conflict  with  his  Emily.  There  was  just  one  point  they 
differed  on — they  did  not  quarrel,  because  Emily  was  too 
slow  in  speech.  There's  no  comfort  to  be  had  out  of  a 
quarrel,  unless  it's  quick — very  quick ;  and  if  Emily 
had  had  her  choice  she  would  a  good  deal  rather  have 
died  than  try  to  be  quick. 

The  point  of  difference  between  this  otherwise 
peaceful  pair  was  whether  the  chewing  of  gum  was 
un-Christianlike  and  disrespectful  when  indulged  in 
during  family  service.  The  first  time  he  had  caught 
her  in  the  heinous  act  he  had  roared  out :  "  Woman, 
have  you  no  decency  ?  Would  you  chaw  the  ten  com 
mandments  up  into  a  hunk  of  gum  ?  " 

Emily  had  mildly  stated  that  she  chewed  "  to  keep 
herself  awake,"  and  after  many  struggles  it  had  come  to 
a  compromise — she  was  only  to  chew  while  he  read ;  not 
while  he  prayed. 


40  A  Silent  Singer 

Emily  explained  matters  to  me  one  day  in  this  way : 
"  You  see,  Mr.  Brockwell,  he  gets  riled  up  because  I 
chew  gum  while  he's  reading  gospel,  but  it's  really  his 
own  fault ;  if  he'd  only  read  one  chapter,  like  an  ordi 
nary  Christian  man  !  My  father,  now,  was  a  deacon, 
and  he  never  read  mor'n  one  chapter  at  a  time  at  family 
service ;  but  Mr.  Brockwell,  when  he  gets  a  smiting 
people  hip  and  thigh,  and  a  raining  down  plagues  and 
things ;  why,  there's  no  stop  to  him  ;  he  goes  right  along 
over  ever  so  many  chapters — and  I  don't  take  to  the  ston 
ing  and  the  killing — and  so  I  go  off  to  sleep,  unless  I 
chew  gum  right  hard.  Why,  never  once  since  we've  been 
married  has  Mr.  Brockwell  been  satisfied  with  the  '  Fall 
of  Jericho '  for  one  reading.  On  he  goes,  and  tackles 
that  city  of  4  Ai,'  and  I  always  feel  sorry  when  t  hat  line 
comes  about  the  '  men  and  women  that  were  slaughtered 
bein'  twelve  thousand.'  But,  land  sakes !  it's  all  sweeter 
than  honey  to  Mr.  Brockwell — 'specially  the  hanging  of 
the  king,  and  piling  stones  on  his  body  for  the  beginning 
of  an  altar — nasty,  bad-smelling  idea  I  call  it.  But  when 
Mr.  Brockwell  begins  with  them  '  seven  trumpets  of  rams' 
horns'  I  begin  to  chew  hard,  for  I  know  there's  a  lot 
to  be  gone  over  before  praying  begins.  If  he'd  read 
oftener  about  Hannah  and  little  Samuel  I'd  keep 
awake.  Ain't  that  a  nice  little  Samuel  on  the  mantel 
— his  left  foot's  broken,  but  kneeling  like  that  you'd 
never  know  it,  unless  you  turn  him  around."  That 
being  the  sort  of  tangent  Mrs.  Emily  was  apt  to  go  off 
on  during  a  conversation. 


An  Old  Hulk  41 

The  old  man  might  have  lived  without  working  at 
that  time,  but  he  held  idleness  as  sinful,  so  he,  without 
any  feeling  of  shame,  acted  as  night  watchman  in  a 
large  building  down  town.  One  winter  there  were 
many  burglaries,  and  his  employer  grew  a  bit  uneasy, 
knowing  his  was  a  tempting  establishment  and  remem 
bering  that  Thomas  Brockwell  was  an  elderly  man.  So 
he  asked  his  watchman  if  he  would  not  like  to  have 
some  one  to  help  him  during  the  rest  of  the  winter. 
And  Brockwell  was  hot  with  anger  and  answered  that 
he  could  take  care  of  his  employer's  property,  but  he 
didn't  want  to  protect  some  young  nincompoop 
besides.  "  I  am  able  to  take  care  of  any  burglars  that 
come  my  way.  A  man  of  the  Lord  can  always  lick  a 
law-breaker,"  and  looking  at  the  really  splendid  old 
body  of  his  watchman,  the  gentleman  had  laughingly 
declared  he  "  believed  old  Brockwell  would  be  up  to 
two  or  three  younger  men !  "  and  let  him  go  his  obsti 
nate,  lonely  way,  and  like  many  another  word  spoken 
in  jest,  these  words  proved  true. 

One  bitter  night,  after  reading  with  great  enjoyment 
of  the  prompt  action  of  the  bears  in  the  taking  off  of 
those  ribald  little  boys  who  had  made  unpleasant 
remarks  about  the  scarcity  of  hair  among  the  prophets 
(surprising  how  alike  the  boys  of  to-day  are  with  the 
boys  of  the  scriptural  epoch),  and  had  prayed  till 
Emily  had  fallen  asleep,  with  her  face  squelched  in  the 
seat  of  the  chair  she  knelt  by,  and  had  awakened 
and  acknowledged  her  fault.  "  For,"  as  she  said  to 


42  A  Silent  Singer 

me,  "  after  lie  had  fallen  over  my  legs  without  waking 
me,  he  might  have  thought  I  was  lying  if  I  had  said  I 
was  just  thinking." 

And  I  had  quite  agreed  with  her  and  complimented 
her  on  her  truthful  nature — and  he  had  taken  his  tin 
pail  of  coffee  in  his  mittened  hand  and  his  package  of 
sandwiches  in  his  pocket  and  gone  forth  to  his  night's 
watch.  He  had  been  a  sailor  in  his  early  manhood, 
and,  in  addition  to  the  tattooed  anchor  and  star  on  the 
backs  of  his  hands,  he  still  retained  a  few  words  from 
his  sailor's  vocabulary  which  he  used  now  and  then 
with  bewildering  effect  upon  the  landsmen.  Mrs. 
Broekwell  found  that  habit  particularly  trying.  She 
was  one  of  those  women  who  always  get  drabbled  when 
they  walk.  Long  street  dresses  were  worn  in  her  day, 
and  had  she  possessed  six  hands  instead  of  two,  she 
would  have  failed  still  to  keep  her  dress  out  of  the  wet 
or  the  mud.  On  Sundays  when  she  was  crowded  into 
her  best  gown  and  was  clutching  her  skirt  in  the  most 
useless  places,  trying  to  pick  her  way  across  a  muddy 
street,  old  Thomas  was  wont  to  exclaim  from  the  rear : 
u  Take  a  reef  in  the  la'board  side  of  your  petticoat, 
Emily !  "  and  Emily  would  hoist  high  the  right  side 
instead,  and  the  left  would  go  trailing  through  the 
mud,  while  the  old  man  pounded  the  walk  with  his 
Sunday  cane,  crying :  "  La'board — la'board — la'board, 
not  sta'board.  Now  just  look  at  your  sails!  Oh, 
woman,  the  ignorance  of  you  at  forty-six,  not  to  know 
your  la'board  from  your  sta'board  side !  "  And  meek 


An  Old  Hulk  43 

Emily  never  suggested  that  left  and  right  were  the 
generally  accepted  terms  for  use  on  shore. 

And  as  old  Thomas  walked  through  the  biting  cold, 
he  congratulated  himself  on  the  honesty  his  wife  had 
shown  in  admitting  she  had  fallen  asleep  during 
prayers,  and  said  to  himself  that  it  was  the  end  of  her 
day's  work  and  he  supposed  she  was  tired — and — 
"  great  guns,  how  cold  it  was  !  "  And  so  he  maun 
dered  on  and  reached  his  store  and  entered  and  made 
his  rounds,  and  finally  at  about  two  o'clock  he  took  hia 
coffee  from  the  heater  and  began  to  drink  it,  when  he 
paused — to  listen.  Then  he  put  the  coffee  gently 
down  and  stole  softly  to  the  office — and  saw  two  men 
at  the  safe,  and  with  a  cry,  "Avast  there  !  "  he  was 
upon  them,  striving  to  grasp  them  both  !  The  smaller 
one  was  like  an  eel  and  had  slipped  from  his  clutch, 
but  the  larger  one  he  held  on  to,  and  after  a  short 
struggle,  he  got  his  head  "  in  chancery."  He  had  just 
put  in  a  couple  of  good  blows — when  he  heard  an 
ominous  click  behind  him — at  the  same  instant  the  man 
he  was  pounding  fiercely  growled :  "  No,  no,  don't  use 
the  '  barker  ' — you  fool,  you'll  '  jug  '  us  all  yet ! 
Choke  the  devil  off,  so  I  can  do  something — choke 
him,  I  say  !  " 

With  beautiful  obedience  and  the  spring  of  a  wild 
cat,  No.  2  was  on  Brockwell's  back,  and  doing  his  best 
to  carry  out  orders.  But  it  was  that  neck — that  had 
given  rise  to  the  name  Lull  Brockwell ;  and  fche  small 
ruffian  tried  in  vain  to  get  his  clever  thief  s  fingers  in 


44  A  Silent  Singer 

a  choking  grasp  about  the  massive  throat;  but  his 
weight  was  disturbing  and  distressing,  and  old  Brock- 
well  loosed  No.  1  for  a  moment,  while  he  reached  up 
and  tore  the  incubus  from  his  shoulders.  In  the  effort 
he  wheeled  half  round  and  found  himself  facing  a  third 
man  in  the  doorway.  He  had  just  time  to  note  that 
the  man  had  a  bull's-eye  lantern  in  one  hand,  some 
weapon  in  the  other,  and  wore  a  half-mask  on  his  face 
— when  he  received  a  crushing  blow  upon  the  head. 
He  felt  the  hot  blood  leap  forth  in  swift  response  to 
that  savage  gash.  He  staggered  a  bit,  too,  but  did 
not  fall,  to  the  amazement  of  the  brawny  scoundrel, 
who  exclaimed:  "Well,  I'll  be  damned!"  Those 
words  were  like  a  veritable  "  slogan  "  to  old  Brock- 
well.  "Aye,  aye,"  he  cried,  "right  you  are,  my 
hearty !  Damned  you  will  be,  sure,  and  the  burning 
lake  of  brimstone  you'll  get  for  this  night's  work!" 
and  then  they  were  upon  him.  He  threw  No.  3  out  of 
the  doorway  and  took  that  place  himself,  thus  keeping 
all  of  them  before  him,  and  like  an  old  bear  "  baited  " 
by  a  pack  of  snapping,  snarling  dogs,  he  was  slowly 
driven  back  until  he  found  himself  in  the  room  again 
where  stood  his  coffee.  While  he  placed  many  blows 
where  they  would  do  the  most  good,  still  a  great  many 
more  had  fallen  short.  He  felt  his  wind  was  going, 
and  the  streaming  blood  from  his  head  impaired  his 
sight,  and  just  at  that  moment  of  threatened  weakness 
the  little  thief  struck  him  in  the  face,  not  with  his  fist 
but  with  his  open  hand — slapped  him,  in  fact.  With  a 


An  Old  Hulk  45 

roar  of  rage,  old  Brockwell  caught  up  the  pail  and 
dashed  the  hot  coffee  full  into  his  assailant's  face,  then 
shouting,  "  You  little  whelp,  you  cur,  you  worm !  " 
with  a  mighty  blow  he  drove  the  tin  pail  hard  and  tight 
on  to  the  thief's  head,  half  cutting  off  his  ears  with  its 
rim,  and  as  the  other  men  made  at  him,  by  a  happy 
fluke,  he  caught  each  man  by  the  back  of  the  neck  and 
with  every  ounce  of  power  to  be  had  from  his  great 
arms  and  shoulders,  he  drove  their  two  heads  together 
in  a  smashing  blow,  and  dropped  their  bodies  as  a  well- 
bred  terrier  drops  the  rats  he  has  shaken  the  life  from. 
Then  he  turned  for  the  little  foe,  just  in  time  to  catch 
upon  his  arm  the  blow  that  had  been  meant  for  his 
heart,  and,  by  the  hot  smarting  of  his  skin,  he  knew  he 
had  been  cut  by  the  little  ruffian,  whom  he  hammered 
into  submission  easily.  Then  Bull  Brockwell  sounded 
his  whistle  at  the  door  for  the  police,  and  when  they 
came  he  laid  his  hand  on  one  of  the  officers'  shoulder 
and  faintly  asked :  "  Why — don't — you — hold  still — 
officer?  You  keep — going  up — and  down — ,"  and 
then  old  Thomas  went  down,  and  for  a  time  knew 
neither  prayer,  nor  burglar,  nor  even  burning  brim 
stone,  but  only  darkness. 

When  his  senses  came  back  to  him  he  gave  an  exhi 
bition  of  what  might  be  called  pig-headed  honesty. 
There  was  a  drug  store  and  a  doctor's  office  about  two 
blocks  away,  and  the  policeman,  on  seeing  the  sorry 
condition  of  the  old  man,  urged  him  to  go  and  have 
his  hurts  cared  for.  They  would  see  that  all  was  safe 


46  A  Silent  Singer 

during  his  absence,  but  he  refused  point  blank,  saying : 
"  If  a  man  was  a  watchman,  he  watched !  If  he  was  a 
night  watchman  he  watched  till  the  night  was  gone,  or 
deserved  the  4  cat.'  His  employer  paid  him  to  stay 
in  that  building  till  daylight,  and  he'd  stay,  and  be 
tended  to  afterwards." 

Half  angrily  the  policeman  exclaimed :  "  You 
obstinate,  old  bull !  Do  you  want  to  bleed  to  death, 
then  ?  "  And  the  "  bull,"  with  some  embarrassment, 
had  acknowledged  that  he  did  not  really  desire  death, 
but  with  a  sigh  of  satisfaction,  he  suddenly  announced  : 
"  The  Lord  will  settle  all  that.  All  I've  got  to  do 
— is  my  duty — and  though  I  don't  feel  just  what  you 
might  call — hearty — I — I — guess — I'll  hold  out — 
till  time's  up  and —  '  and  his  gray  white  lips  trembled 
into  silence. 

The  policeman,  rinding  him  immovable  in  his  deter 
mination,  sent  for  help,  and  soon  the  battered  "  old 
Brockwell "  was  being  washed  and  strapped  and  baud- 
aged  and  stitched,  and  had  a  few  feet  of  plaster  over 
some  strained  muscles,  and  was  generally  "made  over." 
And  then  the  stunned  burglars  had  recovered  their 
scattered  senses  and  received  a  smiling  and  joyous 
welcome  from  the  policemen,  such  as  is  only  offered 
when  the  lost  is  found — and  indeed  one  of  these  gen 
tlemen  had  been  lost — from  the  penitentiary — for 
several  months.  When  the  party  of  three  were  rounded 
up,  ready  for  an  early  morning  stroll  to  the  station 
house,  No.  1  had  turned  to  Brockwell  and  growled : 


An  Old  Hulk  47 

••  See  here,  you  old  slugger,  next  time  I  come  up 
against  you  just  hit  me  over  the  head  with  a  loaded 
cane,  or  the  butt-end  of  a  revolver  or  something  soft 
like  that,  will  you  ?  I  don't  want  to  be  4  put  out '  no 
more  with  another  4  mug's '  head,  now  I  tell  you  fair! " 

"A— a — ah!"  cried  the  little  fellow,  " he's  a  fightin' 
freak,  he  is !  Pie  ought  to  be  a  doin '  time  for  jam 
ming  a  tin  pail  over  a  man's  head  and  half  cutting  off 
his  ears !" 

And  so  they  went  forth,  cursing  the  night  they  had 
tackled  "  old  Bull  Brockwell !" 

And  then  he  had  returned  home,  "  sans  buttons  et  sans 
reproche,"  and  finding  a  barrel  of  flour  standing  at  the 
side  door,  had  picked  it  up  and  carried  it  into  the  house, 
apparently  to  convince  himself  that  he  was  not  much 
hurt.  Then,  beginning  to  feel  stiff  and  lame,  he  put 
himself  into  Emily's  hands,  and  she  promptly  put  him 
into  his  bed,  and  scrambled  through  the  "Fall  of 
Jericho,"  stuck  her  gum  upon  the  bed-post  while  she 
did  it,  then  she  had  looked  at  his  head  and  said,  "she'd 
no  idea  a  man  could  sew  so  neatly!"  and  then  old 
Brockwell  got  hot  and  feverish,  and  his  eye  and  cheek 
had  blackened,  and  the  doctor  said  he  must  be  kept 
quiet  a  few  days,  at  which  dictum  Emily  had  groaned 
aloud:  "Kept  quiet?  Him?  Good  Lord!" 

And,  truly,  had  she  been  alone  with  him  those  days, 
her  work  would  have  been  cut  out  for  her.  The  ideal 
"bull  in  a  china  shop"  would  have  proved  an  inoffen 
sive  and  lymphatic  creature  compared  to  this  pawing, 


48  A  Silent  Singer 

plunging,  irritable  old  Bull  Brockwell !  Bad  enough 
at  any  time,  when  his  eyes  had  swelled  so  he  could  no 
longer  by  the  aid  of  his  Bible  put  women  and  children 
to  "the  edge  of  the  sword,"  nor  erect  altars,  nor  even 
calculate  the  dollars'  worth  of  a  "  wedge  of  gold  of  fifty 
shekels  weight,"  he  proceeded  to  fret  himself  into  a 
fever,  and  I  was  moved  partly  by  pity  and  partly,  I 
am  sorry  to  say,  by  a  spirit  of  mischief,  to  seat  myself 
by  his  side,  and  with  the  air  of  one  who  carefully 
selects  a  soothing  and  pleasant  topic  for  sick-room  con 
versation,  I  brought  forward  the  subject  of  eternal  pun 
ishment,  and  for  my  reward  had  his  fixed  attention  in 
a  moment. 

For  a  time  he  expatiated  on  the  strong  points  of  that 
place  of  torment,  seeing  no  inconsistency  in  paving  with 
broken  promises  a  bottomless  pit,  and  as  he  began  to 
run  down,  assuming  the  air  of  one  eager  for  informa 
tion,  I  asked  his  opinion  of  that  place  of  eternal  cold 
ness — that  frozen  lake. 

"  Coldness — coldness?"  he  repeated,  "  Why,  I  don't 
seem  to  remember !"  and  then  another  thought  came  to 
him  and  he  broke  out :  "  Fine !  Splendid !  I  never  felt 
such  pain  in  my  life  as  when  I  went  near  a  fire  with  my 
frosted  hands.  Cold  and  fire !  That's  good !  Ah,  it 
would  have  been  better  to  have  respected  them  com 
mandments — only  ten  of  'em  too !" 

Egged  on  by  his  evident  satisfaction,  I  went  on  intro 
ducing  to  him  "  circle "  after  "  circle "  of  the  great 
Italian's  Vision  of  Hell,  and  if  Mr.  Thomas  Brock- 


An  Old  Hulk  49 

well  ever  knew  a  genuinely  happy  afternoon,  that  was 
the  one.  And  when  I  got  a  soft  pencil  and  made  black 
lines  about  the  inside  of  his  shaving-mug  to  illustrate 
the  idea  of  the  "  circle,"  he  eagerly  peered  in  with  hia 
nearly-closed,  discolored  eyes  and  triumphantly  cried : 
"  And  the  old,  burning-brimstone  lake  right  at  the 
bottom— eh?" 

All  the  punishments  had  met  with  his  hearty  approval 
save  one.  That  great,  black,  "  windy  horror,"  through 
which  unfortunate  lovers  beat  their  blind  way — seeking, 
eternally  seeking  their  sinful  mates — met  with  instant 
condemnation.  "  If  they  had  sinned — they  had  broken 
a  very  important  law — a  law,  mind  you,  that  Moses  had 
received  direct  from  Heaven.  Just  flying  round  in  the 
dark  was  no  punishment  for  such  a  sin !  They  got 
worse  than  that  when  they  were  alive  !"  For,  you  see, 
the  old  man  was  very  material,  and  he  failed  to  imagine 
the  anguish  of  that "  eternal,  loving,  despairing  search !" 

All  went  well.  Old  Brockwell  not  only  kept  to  his 
bed,  but  enjoyed  himself  until  night  and  time  for  family 
service  arrived,  and  then  the  "  snag  "  appeared  in  my 
way  that  I  should  have  seen  from  the  first.  Suddenly 
suspicious,  he  placed  his  hand  on  the  book  and  asked : 
u  Just  in  what  part  of  4  this '  did  you  find  all  that  new 
4  Hell '  you've  been  telling,me  about,  lass  ?" 

I  sat  stupidly  silent.  I  had  a  vision  of  myself  being 
driven  away  as  unworthy  to  enter  in  with  true  believers, 
having  jested  upon  the  great  subject.  I  tried  to  force 
my  lips  to  speak,  to  tell  him  I  would  bring  the  book  I 


50  A  Silent  Singer 

had  read  it  all  in — but,  truth  to  tell,  I  was  too  fright 
ened  to  speak,  and  his  brow  blackening  with  anger, 
Mattie,  his  step-daughter,  calmly  asked:  "Mother 
where  was  it  in  the  old-world  they  found  those  '  sacred ' 
manuscripts  the  other  day  ?"  (Poor  Emily  wasn't  at 
all  sure  there  was  an  old-world.)  Mr.  Brockwell,  you'll 
know — Egypt  wasn't  it?  Those  wise  men  are  working 
over  them,  you  know,  to  translate  them ;  they  say  they 
are  parts  of  the  old — 

"  Egypt,"  declared  the  battered  Brockwell.  "  Egypt, 
and  very  interesting  they  are  too !" 

"  But,"  I  meekly  started,  "  but " — then  Mattie  cleared 
her  throat  loudly,  and  bending  over  me,  muttered: 
"  Don't  be  a  fool — leave  well-enough  alone !"  and  I  fol 
lowed  her  advice  and  was  silent.  A  month  later,  I  told 
them  "  good-bye,"  my  profession  taking  me  far  from 
them,  and  I  could  not  help  admiring  the  upright,  pow 
erful  figure  of  the  old  man,  as  he  stood  at  his  gate — so 
perfectly  proportioned  that  it  was  hard  to  believe  that 
he  was  inches  over  six  feet  in  height.  As  I  reached 
the  walk  I  looked  back.  Emily,  large  and  buxom,  stood 
in  the  door,  a  soft,  red  shawl  about  her  ample  shoulders 
— her  jaws  working  with  a  slow  precision  that  told  me 
plainly  she  was  "  breaking  in "  a  new  piece  of  gum. 
Bull  Brockwell  waved  his  hat  to  me,  and,  against  the 
westering  sun,  he  loomed  up  black  and  big !  And  I 
said  to  myself:  "  In  faith  as  in  body — a  giant!" 

Three  years  had  passed  before  I  saw  him  again,  three 
vivid,  crowded  years  for  me !  Success  had  perched 


An  Old  Hulk  51 

upon  the  lonely,  little  banner  I  had  carried  into  that 
strange  compaign  where  each  one  fights  according  to 
his  own  individual  plan,  and  I  was  back  in  the  old 
city,  and  because  of  that  success  was  in  great  haste  to 
seek  my  lowly,  old  friends  out — for  self  respect,  even  a 
suspicious  pride,  renders  it  very  hard  for  the  lowly  to 
make  the  first  advance  toward  one  who  has  risen  ever 
so  slightly.  I  had  heard  nothing  of  them  during  my 
absence,  and  standing  at  the  doer  waiting  a  good,  long 
wait — for  Emily,  like  most  large  bodies,  moved  slowly — I 
said  to  myself:  "I  shall  not  see  the  dear,  old  'Bull' 
for  a  couple  of  hours  yet,  as  he  will  surely  be  sleeping 
now,  but  by  six  o'clock — "  and  then  the  door  opened, 
and  Mrs.  Emily  was  before  me,  quite  unchanged  -and 
had  taken  me  into  a  big  comfortable  embrace— and 
kissed  me  warmly  and  loudly,  and  expressed  her  grati 
fication  so  noisily  that  I  wondered  she  was  not  afraid  of 
waking  her  husband — and  then  «he  led  the  way  to  the 
sitting-room,  without  one  word  of  warning  or  explanation 
— which  was  so  like  Emily — and  crying  out,  "  My,  Mr. 
Brock  well,  but  here  is  some  one  you'll  be  glad  to  see," 
she  moved  aside  and  left  me  in  the  doorway,  where  I 
stood  quite  still,  the  smile  of  welcome  drying  stiffly  on 
my  lips,  while  with  pained  astonishment  I  stared  at — 
Mr.  Brockwell  (?) — oh,  yes;  that  thick  thatch  of  hair  was 
neither  whiter  nor  thinner  than  before.  There  was  the 
splendid,  old  torso  with  all  its  depth  of  chest  and  breadth 
of  shoulder.  But  why  was  he  in  that  dread  wheel 
chair  ?  Why  were  his  great  limbs  covered  with  a  quilt  ? 


52  A  Silent  Singer 

and,  worst  of  all,  why  that  strange  expression  in  his 
face?  Meeting  that  piteous,  appealing  glance,  I  felt  the 
tears  begin  to  fall,  for  I  realized  that  in  spite  of  the 
presence  here  of  Mr.  Brockwell — old  Bull  Brockwell 
was  no  more  !  The  painful  silence  was  broken  by  the 
trembling  voice  of  Emily :  "  Father,  I  clean  forgot  to 
tell  her — anything — and — and,  I  declare,  she  does  take 
it  right  hard — don't  she,  now?"  and  she  slipped  out  of 
the  room,  wiping  her  own  eyes  furtively  as  she  went ! 

As  I  crossed  the  room  toward  him,  his  chin  sank 
upon  his  breast,  and  shaking  his  old  head  slowly,  he 
sadly  murmured :  "  From  him  that  hath  not,  shall  be 
taken  away  even  that  which  he  hath  /" 

I  took  his  great  hand  between  both  of  mine,  and  my 
lips  were  just  forming  the  words  :  "  Surely  this  is  but 
temporary?"  when  he  raised  his  eyes,  and,  looking 
into  them,  I  saw  that  hope  was  dead  and  buried  there. 
I  sank  upon  my  knees  beside  him  and  said :  "  Tell  me 
about  it,  Mr.  Brockwell."  He  glanced  towards  his 
wife's  room,  but  I  persisted  gently :  "  No — I  want  you 
to  tell  me,"  for  my  true  sympathy  had  bridged  the 
years  between  us,  and  we  were  like  old  friends. 

In  low  tones  he  told  his  simple,  commonplace  story. 
It  was  the  construction  he  put  upon  the  usual  that 
made  it  seem  unusual,  and  brief  and  simple  as  his  story 
was,  it  was  intensely  characteristic.  He  had  started 
earlier  than  usual  to  his  night's  work,  and  was  swing 
ing  his  coffee-pail  to  the  measure  of  the  old  hymn, 
«  On  Jordan's  Stormy  Banks  I  Stand,"  when,  turning 


An  Old  Hulk  53 

into  a  cross-street,  he  found  himself  in  a  crowd  of  run 
ning  men  and  women,  and  in  a  few  moments  was  in 
the  midst  of  all  the  turmoil  and  commotion  attending 
a  fire,  and  he  soon  saw  there  was  cause  for  the  cries  of 
the  women  and  the  curses  of  the  men.  There  had 
been  a  nasty  accident,  and  it  had  come  to  the  first 
engine  approaching  the  fire.  It  had  been  a  case  of 
strange  driver  and  a  too-short  turn,  and  there,  in  a  ter 
rible  heap,  lay  one  korse  flat,  the  other  on  its  knees, 
and  behind  them  a  partly  overturned  engine.  Worst 
of  all,  not  only  were  its  own  services  lost,  but  it  was 
keeping  other  engines  from  entering  the  street,  save  by 
a  long  detour.  Now,  if  ever  there  was  a  demand  for 
lifting-power  that  demand  was  made  right  there,  and 
old  Brockwell  sat  down  his  coffee-pail  and  began  to 
remove  his  heavy  coat  (it  was  early  November  then), 
when  he  learned  quite  suddenly  that  the  burning  house 
was  a  haunt  of  evil  doers,  was  in  fact  a  place  that  hon 
est  folk  turned  their  faces  from  as  they  passed,  and  for 
the  moment  he  hesitated,  then  flinging  his  coat  fiercely 
off,  he  shouted  :  "  Help  !  men,  help  I  That  fire  must 
be  quenched,  to  give  those  people  one  last  chance  to 
save  themselves  from  eternal  fire,"  and  the  "  old  Bull " 
was  with  the  firemen,  working  with  a  will  and  showing 
such  splendid  lifting-power  that  the  crowd  cheered 
the  "  gray  old  Hercules"  lustily,  and  among  other 
happenings  some  "  company's  hose "  had  burst,  and 
many  were  wetted  thoroughly,  among  them  old  Brock- 
well.  A  church  clock  had  boomed  out  the  hour,  and 


54  A  Silent  Singer 

it  was  time  for  him  to  go  on  to  his  work,  and  then  he 
felt  how  wet  he  was.  He  might  have  gone  home  and 
changed  his  clothing  and  only  have  been  a  little  late 
in  getting  to  the  store.  There  was  no  one  to  make 
comment  or  to  report  his  action,  but  he  would  be  late, 
and  he  was  proud,  (the  old  man's  lips  had  twisted  pain 
fully  in  uttering  that  word),  proud  of  his  punctuality, 
and — well — he  had  gone  on  to  the  store,  wet  as  he  was, 
and  the  night  had  been  long,  and  now  and  then,  strange, 
deep,  burning  pains,  that  seemed  a  mile  long,  had  run 
from  hip  to  heel,  but  he  had  watched  the  night  out — and 
— and  he  would  never  watch  again — that  was  all.  He 
had,  in  fact,  "  scuttled  his  own  ship,"  but  in  ignorance, 
lass !  In  ignorance,  not  in  villainy.  Yes,  it  was 
rheumatism  first.  He  hadn't  minded  that  BO  very 
much,  because  he  had  the  awful  pain  to  fight,  but  this 
(again  that  piteous  twist  of  the  lips),  this  partial  par 
alysis — well  there  was  nothing  even  to  fight  now. 

Had  I  not  seen  hope  dead  in  his  eye?  His  head 
sank  low  on  his  breast.  I  touched  my  lips  to  his  hand, 
and  whispered,  "  How  you  have  suffered !  "  His  eyes 
closed  wearily,  and  he  answered  lowly :  "I  have  eaten 
ashes  like  bread,  and  mingled  my  drink  with  weeping," 
then,  almost  with  a  sob,  he  said :  "Aye,  aye — in  very 
truth  my  sin  hath  found  me  out ! " 

I  started  almost  angrily,  exclaiming  :  "  Your  sin  ? 
What  sin  ?  You  have  loved-  —at  least  you  have  feared 
God  all  your  life  long  I  His  word  has  ever  been  upon 
your  lips.  You  have  striven  to  obey  His  laws — what 


An  Old  Hulk  55 

siii  has  found  you  out?  "  He  raised  his  head,  crying : 
44  And  to  think  I  was  so  blind — so  self-satisfied  I  To 
think  how  I  tried  to  keep  the  boys  from  going  to  per 
dition  by  way  of  Sunday  ball,  and  the  girls  by  way  of 
their  vanity  in  their  bits  of  ribbons !  The  blind  4  lead 
ing  the  blind,'  in  good  truth!  Even  when  I  was 
stricken  I  did  not  understand,  until  a  neighbor  made 
my  sin  plain  to  me." 

44  Ah,"  I  said,  44  and  had  that  neighbor  removed  the 
beam  from  his  own  eye,  that  he  could  see  so  very 
plainly  the  mote  in  yours?" 

44 1  do  not  know,"  he  answered,  44  but  he  said  that 
pride  went  before  a  fall.  And  when  I  looked  a  bit 
surprised  he  added,  4  you  have  been  eaten  up  with 
vanity  and  puffed  up  with  pride  all  your  life,  because 
of  your  great  strength,'  and  oh,  lass  !  lass !  I  was 
sore  ashamed !  Ah,  well,  I  have  110  strength  to  sin 
with  now — I  am  just  naught  but  a  useless,  old  hulk,  or 
what  is  worse,  4  a  derelict  I ' 

44  No,"  I  said,  44  a  4  derelict '  is  a  menace  and  a 
floating  danger  to  many  men — you  are  no  derelict  I " 

But  he,  shaking  his  clenched  hand  above  his  head 
in  impotent  sorrow,  went  on :  u  Worse !  I'm  worse 
than  a  danger  to  men!  Men  are  strong  and  can  save 
themselves,  but  here  I  hang  like  a  mill-stone  about  the 
neck  of  that  poor  woman  there — my  wife,  and  she'll 
have  to  bear  the  dragging  and  the  weight  for  years 
and  years.  For,  mind  you,  I'm  not  like  to  die.  The 
doctors  say  these  things  inside  of  me  that  they  call 


56  A  Silent  Singer 

'  organs '  are  all  sound  and  strong,  and  that  a  man 
lives  ~by  them,  not  his  legs,  and  so  I'm  to  sit  here  rust 
ing  away,  and  watching  her  grow  sick  at  the  sight  of 
me!" 

Two  slow,  difficult  tears  stood  chill  and  unshed  in  his 
eyes,  and  I  felt,  with  a  pang,  how  great  must  be  the 
storm  of  sorrow  that  could  cast  its  spray  into  those 
stern,  old  eyes. 

"  I  don't  suppose,"  he  went  on,  "  that  she  realizes 
it  yet ;  she's  good  as  gold.  She  takes  care  of  me, 
helpless  as  I  am,  always  just  as  smiling  and  pleasant, 
and  sets  right  by  me,  and  don't  even  go  to  church — just 
talks  a  little  over  the  fence  with  the  neighbors,  so  she 
can  come  and  tell  me  what's  going  on.  Why,  she  even 
offered  to  give  up  gum,  and  she  a  needing  it  for  her 
digestion  so,  'cause  she  thought  it  might  make  me  rest- 
less-like  (and  there  is  a  kind  of  gum,  you  know,  that 
squeaks  a  good  deal  when  it's  new);  but  I  ain't  so  selfish 
as  all  that.  But,  oh,  if  I  could  just  die  decently,  as  a 
man  should  when  he's  no  more  use,  and  not  be  a  bur 
den  and  a  drag  !  For,  you  see,  Emily's  a  mighty  fine 
figure  of  a  woman,  and  she  might  easily  find  a  new 
home,  with  some  good,  sound  man  for  a  husband — who 
would  protect  her,  and  not  sit,  as  I  do,  waiting  for  the 
day  to  come  when  his  wife  will  look  at  him  with 
loathing." 

"  Mr.  Brock  well,"  I  cried,  "  do  you  know  that  you 
are  cruel  to  yourself  and  unjust  to  your  wife?  "  He 
looked  hard  at  me,  but  made  no  answer.  "  Your  wife 


An  Old  Hulk  57 

was  always  proud  of  you  !  "  His  face  quivered — I  had 
struck  a  wrong  note — I  hurried  on  :  "  proud  of  your 
character  and  standing,  and  of  the  pretty,  little  home 
you  had  so  hardly  earned,  and  now,  oh,  believe  me,  dear 
old  friend,  I  know  her  heart  better  than  you  do  yet — 
now  she  is  proud  to  be  the  world  for  you,  to  be  your 
feet,  your  nurse,  your  companion,  your  friend  as  well  as 
wife." 

He  sadly  shook  his  head  :  "  She  is  a  slave,"  he  said. 
"  Yes,  if  you  will,  she  is  a  slave  to  her  love  for  you* 
therefore  she  is  a  happy  slave.  You  have  said,  yourself, 
that  she  smiles  on  you  constantly.  She  never  looked 
better  in  her  life,  and  why  does  she  call  you  '  father ' 
now?" 

His  face  brightened  a  little.  "  Yes,"  he  answered, 
"  she  has  called  me  'father'  ever  since  the — the — (how 
he  shrank  from  the  word)  since  the  paralysis  came  upon 
me — yes,  ever  since." 

"And,"  I  went  on,  "  can't  you  see  what  that  means  ? 
She  used  to  call  you  Mr.  Brockwell — but  when  your  cruel 
affliction  came  upon  you  she  felt  the  absolute  need  of 
some  term  of  endearment,  because  she  loved  you.  Still, 
with  the  perversity  of  unhappiness,  he  exclaimed :  "  But 
Emily  didn't  say  that.  She  never  told  me  that  she — 
she—" 

"  Oh,  indeed,"  I  broke  in,  "  and  have  you  given  her 
a  chance  to  tell  you  ?  Have  you  ever  asked  her  if  she 
loved  you  still  ?  "  And  the  old  man,  with  a  mind 
full  of  clean  and  wholesome  memories,  blushed  at  the 


58  A  Silent  Singer 

question  with  a  swift  swirl  of  color  in  his  cheeks 
that  a  girl  of  eighteen  might  have  envied.  "  Have 
you?"  I  persisted.  "Come,  now,  let  us  have  a  little 
fair  play.  You  know  she  can't  speak  first.  You  know 
that,  like  every  other  modest,  self-respecting  woman, 
she  must  be  dumb  about  her  feelings — her  emotions, 
until  the  man  breaks  the  silence.  You  know  she  has 
been  trained  to  silence  from  her  earliest  girlhood.  Yet, 
knowing  all  that,  you  gnaw  your  heart  in  bitterness, 
because  she  does  not  dare  lay  her  arms  about  your  neck 
and  assure  you  of  her  faithful  love." 

His  eyes  glowed,  his  great  hands  opened  and  shut 
nervously.  He  stammered  and  stumbled  over  his  few 
words  :  "  You  think  I  haven't  steered  a  straight  course 
with  Emily,  eh  ?  You  actually  believe,  if  I  take  a 
new  tack,  eh  ? — if  I  tell  her  how  I — how, — well,  how 
things  are  with  me — that  she'll  come  around  to  the 
helm — I  mean — "  and  then  suddenly  his  face  fell  and, 
shaking  his  fist  in  impotent  rage  at  his  helpless  limbs, 
he  cried :  "  Oh,  she  can't,  she  can't !  Look  at  the 
miserable  *  old  hulk,'  just  rottin'  slowly  away  between 
the  tides  of  Time  and  Eternity,  and  talk  of  a  woman 
lovin'  it — a-a-h  1 " 

I  saw  Emily's  troubled  face  at  the  door  and  swiftly 
waved  her  away.  Then  I  said,  as  brightly  as  I  could : 
"  Well,  all  '  hulks '  are  not  despised !  I  saw  a  real  one 
a  few  weeks  ago  !  "  He  looked  up  quickly.  "  Where?  " 
he  asked. 

"  By  the  sea,"  I  answered.     "  What  kind  of  a  hulk 


An  Old  Hulk  59 

was  it — some  unfinished  failure  of  a  c  tub,'  I  sup 
pose  ?  " 

"  No,  a  wreck  !  A  great,  gaunt-ribbed  thing ;  stately 
even  in  its  ruin.  The  waves —  '  He  caught  my  dress  as 
I  rose  to  my  feet.  "  Tell  me  about  the  '  hulk,' 
lass,  tell  me !  "  He  pleaded  just  as  a  child  pleads  for  a 
story. 

"  Very  well,"  I  said,  "  I'll  tell  you,  but  you  must  let 
me  go  to  the  spare  room  to  lay  off  my  hat.  I'm  going 
to  stay  all  night,  if  your  wife  will  let  me !  "  I  laughed 
at  his  request  "  for  me  to  hurry,"  and  said :  "  Mr. 
Brockwell,  before  I  go,  I  want  to  say  just  one  more 
word  about  your  wife.  You  may  doubt,  but  I  am  certain, 
certain,  that  should  you  have  your  cruel  wish  and  die 
to-morrow,  and  should  Emily  be  spared  for  many,  many 
years  to  come,  at  the  very  end  she  will  lie  at  your  side, 
and  will  carry  your  name  to  her  grave ;  and  as  I  passed 
Emily  I  whispered  eagerly :  "  Don't  be  angry  with  me ; 
I'll  explain  later,  but,  for  God's  sake,  go  straight  to 
your  husband  and  kiss  him  !  "  The  tears  rushed  into 
her  eyes — she  nodded  her  head  and  passed  into  the  room 
where  he  sat. 

I  loitered  long  [over  the  removal  of  my  hat  and 
wrap ;  I  even  waited  to  bathe  my  reddened  eyes,  and 
then,  as  I  slowly  descended  the  tiny  staircase,  Emily's 
voice,  mildly  indignant,  came  up  to  me,  crying,  "  Oh, 
father,  how  could  you,  how  could  you?"  and  from  the 
deep,  bass  rumble  that  followed  there  escaped  these 
words:  "  A  mighty  fine  figure  of  a  woman,  Emily!  " 


60  A  Silent  Singer 

Then  I  sneezed  loudly  and  entered  the  room  to  find 
them  discussing  the  rival  merits  of  "  beaten "  and 
"  raised"  biscuit,  one  of  which  we  were  to  have  for  "  tea." 
Mrs.  Brockwell,  being  of  a  slow  and  peaceful  nature, 
naturally  preferred  "  raised  "  biscuit,  but  Mr.  Brock- 
well,  being  more  aggressive,  took  a  great  interest  in 
the  "  beating  "  process.  Once  he  asked,  indeed,  if  he 
might  not  beat  the  dough,  and  Emily  delightedly 
assented,  putting  a  big,  white  apron  about  him  and 
bringing  everything  close  to  his  chair.  But  the  poor,  old 
giant's  second  blow  had  split  the  bread-board,  and  that 
had  been  the  end  of  biscuit-beating  for  him.  While 
Emily  was  pounding  vigorously,  if  somewhat  slowly, 
at  her  dough,  I  told  my  old  friend  of  that  other  hulk, 
bleached  white  as  chalk  by  the  blazing  sun,  lying  high 
upon  the  beach,  listing  over  so  that  it  made  a  sort  of 
shelter  for  people  to  sit  under,  with  the  fine,  pale  sand 
slowly  filling  it — slowly  piling  up  about  it ;  how,  when 
I  saw  it,  the  ocean  which  had  cast  it  there  was 
stretched  out  waveless  beneath  the  sun,  with  only  a 
slow,  deep,  regular  heave,  that  was  like  the  breathing 
of  some  mighty  monster  at  rest.  I  told  him  of  that 
awful  night  when  the  signals  of  distress  were  sent  up 
into  the  pitiless  sky,  and  were  seen  and  heard  by  help 
less,  distracted  men  and  women  on  shore ;  and  how,  in 
the  gray  morning,  they  were  astounded  to  see  the  big 
ship  high  upon  the  beach,  and  dumbfounded  when 
they  saw  she  was  a  coffin,  for  there  was  the  body 
of  a  woman  there.  Slight  and  young  and  small  of  foot 


An  Old  Hulk  61 

and  hand,  and  a  Catholic,  since  a  "  scapula "  was 
about  her  neck — and  that  was  all.  How  the  young 
stranger  had  been  buried  on  the  high  land  overlooking 
the  sea  and  the  wreck,  and  how,  down  below  and  up 
above,  both  were  waiting,  one  for  utter  destruction,  the 
other,  for  a  glorious  resurrection ;  and  meantime  the 
old  hulk  had  become  not  only  a  landmark,  but  a  thing 
beloved.  Oh,  yes  ;  he  need  not  shake  his  head,  for 
that  old  hulk  was  the  loyal  friend  of  all  true  lovers.  The 
great,  gray,  maimed  thing  sheltered  many  a  shrinking  pair 
from  prying  eyes.  Brown,  young  rustics,  who  were  fairly 
stricken  dumb  in  the  "  sittin'-rooms"  of  their  sweethearts, 
here,  in  the  velvety,  black  shadow  of  the  friendly,  old 
hulk,  found  their  tongues,  and  told  swiftly  and  well  the 
one  old  story  that  is  ever  new ;  while,  as  to  summer 
nights — why,  the  old  hulk  was  the  trysting-place  of 
lovers  from  half  the  countryside.  It  was  so  public, 
and  yet  so  sheltered — so  protecting.  And  it  was  so 
wise,  the  gray,  old,  sand-filled  thing — it  knew  so  much 
of  Love,  and  Love's  dear  brother,  Death  ! — so  much — 
good  God,  so  much  !  and  yet  was  silent — ever  silent ! 

Half  the  young  married  women  of  the  little  town 
had  received  their  engagement  rings  within  the  shel 
tering  arms  of  the  old  hulk,  and  some  of  them  had  car 
ried  their  little  children  there,  later  on,  that  they  might 
take  their  first,  uncertain  steps  upon  the  soft,  pale 
sands  that  were  drifting  ever  higher  about  the  bleach 
ing  wreck,  just  as  one  might  take  the  first  spring  blos 
soms  to  some  spot  that  was  sacred  to  us. 


62  A  Silent  Singer 

That  noble  ship  that  on  even  keel,  with  mighty  spread 
of  snowy  canvas,  had  sat  the  water  a  living  thing  of 
strength  and  beauty,  had  had  a  commercial  value  only, 
but  wrecked,  it  had  become  a  precious  thing  to  them  all, 
garlanded  with  the  tenderest  sentiments  of  both  men  and 
women,  draped  with  the  radiant  hopes  of  youth,  and  each 
day  gilded  anew  with  ever-living  love.  As  it  sank  deeper 
in  the  sand,  so  it  sank  deeper  in  their  memories — their 
beloved  "old  hulk"! 

The  old  man  had  listened  so  closely  to  my  story  that  I 
was  somewhat  puzzled  when  he  remarked  011  my  last 
word  :  "  If  I  was  sure  and  certain  that  Emily  was  telling 
the  truth  about  that  patchwork,  I  don't  know  but  what  I 
might  get  to  be  more  that  sort  of  hulk  myself,  lass  !  If 
I  could  just  be  of  a  little  use — ever  so  little,  but  real ! 
—I  could  get  along,  but  I  don't  want  to  be  fooled,  like 
a  child,  into  doing  useless  things.  The  Lord  says  :  'A 
man  should  rejoice  in  his  work ! '  but  a  man  can't 
rejoice  if  it's  only  make-believe  work  !  " 

I  began  dimly  to  comprehend,  and,  proceeding  cau 
tiously,  I  remarked  "  that  it  would  not  be  easy  to 
deceive  him,  and  I  did  not  believe  anyone  would  try ! " 
He  looked  doubtful  and,  lowering  his  voice  so  thi*t  his 
wife  might  not  hear  him,  asked  :  "  You  know  what  a 
master  hand  Emily  is  at  piecing  patch- work,  don't  you?  " 

I  did  know !  I  recalled  the  really  handsome  quilts 
she  had  shown  me.  It  was  the  only  way  she  had  to 
gratify  her  natural  love  of  color,  and  the  workmanship 
was  exquisite.  The  quilting  in  "fan"  and  "shell" 


An  Old  Hulk  63 

and  "  diamond  "  forms  equalling  the  piecing.  Indeed, 
patch-work  was  a  fine  art  in  Mrs.  Brockwell's  hands. 
"  Yes,  I  knew  !  " 

Then  his  keen,  old,  blue  eyes  took  fast  hold  upon  mine 
and,  in  an  aggressive  tone,  he  made  this  astonishing  state 
ment  :  "  Well,  Emily  can't  cut  out  any  of  her  patch 
work  herself.  She  can't  cut  any  [two  pieces  exactly  alike, 
to  save  her  life  ! "  Oh,  Emily,  Emily !  poor,  bungling,  lov 
ing  Sapphira !  I  understood  and  thought  fast  while  those 
piercing,  old  eyes  held  me !  I  tried  to  laugh  naturally, 
as  I  exclaimed  :  "  Well,  there's  a  pair  of  us,  then  !  I 
have  lovely  pieces — enough  for  two  quilts,  but  I  can't 
cut  pieces  alike,  and  am  ashamed  to  ask  any  one  to  do 
it  for  me  ;  so  there  they  lie  !  " 

"  Oh,  you  !  "  he  impatiently  answered,  "but  Emily, 
now !  "  I  thought  of  those  quilts  upstairs,  while  he  went 
on:  " See  this  thing,  now!"  He  pointed  to  the  small 
quilt  over  his  knees.  I  required  no  invitation,  goodness 
knows !  for  the  ugly,  ill-made  thing  had  forced  my 
attention  long  ago.  No  two  pieces  matched  in  length ; 
they  were  puckered  and  stretched  (the  old  man  called 
them  "  we-wahed  "). 

"That's  her  cutting,"  he  announced!  I  was  about  to 
explain,  when  I  saw  Emily  behind  him  in  the  kitchen 
door  frantically  signing  me  to  keep  quiet.  "  Oh, 
dear !  "  I  moaned  to  myself,  "  what  about  those  quilts 
upstairs?  " 

"Yes  ;"  he  went  on,  "  that's  a  woman's  cuttin'  out ! 
Yes  (argumentatively),  I  saw  her  do  it !  And  think 


64  A  Silent  Singer 

of  those  quilts  upstairs !  (Ah,  I  thought !)  Why, 
Emily  says  she  would  have  had  enough  for  herself  and 
for  her  daughters'  marrying,  if  she  could  have  got 
her  first  husband  to  cut  her  pieces  for  her !  (O, 
Emily !)  but  she  had  to  beg  and  beg,  and  he  wouldn't 
cut  a  single  piece  for  a  whole  year  sometimes.  She 
says  he  was  ashamed  to  do  it,  she  reckons  !  Well!"  he 
hotly  ejaculated,  "  I'm  not  ashamed  to  do  anything 
for  my  wife,  unless " — he  cooled  suddenly  again — 
"  unless  she's  only  making  believe  so  as  to  give  me 
employment !  " 

"  Well,"  I  said,  "  if  you  choose  to  doubt  your  wife, 
after  looking  at  that  awful  quilt,  you  may.  But  you 
can't  well  suspect  me,  and  if  you  will  cut  pieces  for  one 
quilt  for  me  I'll  give  you  silk  enough  for  a  quilt  for 
yourself.  Will  you  do  it  ?  " 

The  last  suspicion  faded !  He  threw  back  his  head 
and  laughed :  "  Will:I  ?  You'll  see  !  Say,  lass,  just  step 
over  to  the  sta'board  side  of  that  sewing  machine  and 
hand  me  up  that  cuttin'  board,  and  I'll  show  you  what's 
the  matter  with  the  *  cuttin'  out '  of  all  you  women. 
You  see,  " — he  spoke  with  an  air  of  growing  authority 
as  he  unrolled  some  bits  of  calico — "you  will  just 
have  your  pattern  cut  out  of  a  bit  of  cotton 
or  delaine,  and  then  you  smack  that  down  onto, 
perhaps,  several  pieces  of  goods  together,  never 
mind  whether  bias  or  straight,  just  to  save  time. 
Great  guns !  save  time  !  Look  at  that  thing  over  my 
knees !  Well,  /  take  the  *  sun  observation,'  and  I 


An  Old  Hulk  65 

get  my  pattern  all  right,  and  then  I  cuts  her  out  in 
good,  stiff  pasteboard,  ma'am,  and  if  it's  a  hard  pattern, 
like  4  bride  in  the  mist '  or  '  the  risin'  sun,'  I  have  the 
thing  cut  out  of  a  thin  sheet  of  tin.  A — a — ho  !  I  don't 
make  no  mistakes,  even  with  '  brides  in  the  mist,'  when 
I've  a  good,  tin  pattern  to  work  by ! " 

As  so  often  happens,  enthusiasm  was  too  much  for 
his  grammar.  He  talked  and  planned  all  through  tea 
and  right  along  to  bed  time,  and  I  carried  the  big  Bible 
to  him  and  placed  it  open  upon  his  lap.  His  hand 
instinctively  began  to  turn  the  leaves  in  the  front  of  the 
volume,  but  I  rested  my  hand  on  the  place  I  had 
selected,  and,  laughing,  I  said :  "  You  have  chosen  for 
three  whole  years,  Pm  company  to-night,  and  you  must 
let  me  choose!" 

He  laughed  a  little  and  yielded,  but  when  he  saw 
my  choice  was  from  the  New  Testament,  he  frowned 
heavily,  then  cleared  his  brow  as  with  an  effort  and 
read.  He  was  not  so  familiar  with  the  script  as  usual, 
and  he  read  slowly  and  carefully,  and  when  he  came  to 
that  gentle,  generous  invitation  and  that  all-compre 
hending  promise,  "  Come  to  me  all  ye — all  ye — who 
are  weary  and  heavy  laden — and  I  will  give  you  rest!" 
he  stopped!  To  this  day  I  believe  I  felt  the  old 
man's  thought,  which  was  of  the  astounding  compre 
hension  by  Jesus  of  his  one  craving  wish — not 
for  great  joy — not  for  the  inheritance  of  the  earth — 
no,  not  for  anything  but  that  which  was  promised: 
"Rest." 


66  A  Silent  Singer 

"  Come  unto  me  all  ye  who  are  weary  and  heavy 
laden,  and  I  will  give  you  rest!"  Slowly,  with  trem 
bling  lips,  he  repeated  the  words  a  second  time.  Then 
he  leant  forward,  tore  a  bit  from  the  evening  paper,  and 
placing  it  as  a  marker,  he  closed  the  book.  Emily  and 
I  knelt,  and  for  once  I  felt  no  sense  of  the  ridiculous 
in  hearing  a  poor,  finite  creature  explaining  matters  to 
the  Infinite  Being  who  knows  all  things.  Very  hum 
bly  the  old  believer  explained  to  the  God  he  had  made 
so  fearsome  to  himself  why  he  lifted  his  voice  in  prayer 
in  this  unseemly  attitude,  instead  of  on  his  knees  in 
humble,  loving  humility ! 

I  gasped — I  felt  Emily's  hand  slip  over  and  grasp 
mine — which  proved  lucky  later  on.  Never  before  had 
that  word  been  heard  in  that  way,  in  this  house  of  faith. 
But,  oh,  when  the  old  man  asked  forgiveness  for  having 
wickedly  doubted  for  a  time  the  perfect  truthfulness  of 
one  very  near  to  him — his  truest  friend — Emily  gave  a 
plunge  and  tried  to  pull  away  from  me.  "I  can't," 
she  gasped.  "  I  can't  bear  it !  I  must  confess  my  lie !" 

"Oh!"  I  moaned  under  cover  of  his  bass  rumble, 
"keep  still!  He's  so  happy  now!  Confess  to  heaven !" 
She  tried  again  to  pull  her  hand  away.  I  clung  tight, 
and  putting  my  lips  close  to  her  ear,  whispered:  "He 
will  forgive  you  because  of  your  love!  You  know," 
I  muttered  wildly,  "  much  shall  be  forgiven  because  she 
loved  much !  That's  not  it,  but  you  know  what  I  mean !" 

The  bass  rumble  stopped  suddenly — so  did  I — but 
thank  heaven,  Emily's  spurt  of  remorseful  courage  was 


An  Old  Hulk  67 

over — her  loving  falsehood  unconf essed !  The  rumble 
was  resumed,  and  all  was  well! 

Next  day,  as  I  came  in  hatted  and  cloaked  to  say 
"  good-bye,"  old  Brock  well — bright  and  ruddy — had  his 
cutting  board  on  his  knees,  bits  of  calico  all  over  him. 
A  foot-rule,  a  blue  pencil,  and  several  envelopes  before 
him,  and  the  air  of  "  this  is  my  busy  day  "  of  a  rail 
road  magnate  at  least.  His  "log-cabin"  pattern  had 
been  found  in  a  "  rocky-mountain "  envelope,  and  in 
fact  things  were  all  at  loggerheads — but  by  and  by 
they  would  be  ship-shape.  I  was  just  to  wait  till  I  saw 
some  of  his  own  designs !  Emily  was  going  to  go  right 
at  one— of  "  anchors  " — blue  anchors  on  a  white  ground, 
and  did  I  suppose  any  of  my  pieces  would  be  long 
enough — he  couldn't  well  have  those  anchors  less  than 
six  or  seven  inches  long,  and  then  a  bit  of  the  old 
Adam  came  out  in  him,  when  he  lowered  his  voice  to 
tell  me  :  "  He  was  not  ashamed  to  cut  patch- work,  and 
he  was  not  afraid — that  in  a  year  from  now  there  would 
be  quilts  down  stairs  that  could  outsail  anything  up 
stairs  that  had  been  cut  out  only  after  beggin'  and 
coaxin' !" 

I  looked  at  the  mighty  wreck  before  me !  I  thought 
of  the  three  men  he  had  put  out  in  that  early  morning 
fight !  Of  how,  strained  and  patched  and  stitched,  he 
had  picked  up  that  barrel  of  flour  and  carried  it  in 
from  very  pride  in  his  strength !  How  he  had  won 
cheers  for  his  splendid  lifting-power  at  that  fire,  and 
now  he  had  come  to  this  !  He  sat  there  helpless  as  a 


68  A  Silent  Singer 

child,  his  only  work  cutting  up  scraps  of  calico  for 
quilts.  He  was,  as  he  himself  said,  "an  old  hulk!" 
and  yet  he  looked  brightly  up  to  me  and  said :  "  You 
remember  old  lady  Brighton,  don't  you,  lass?  Unbe 
liever,  poor  old  thing !  Emily  and  I  are  going  to  make 
a  real  pretty  '  star  quilt '  and  give  to  her.  Star- 
pattern  works  up  such  small  pieces,  you  know !  Noth 
ing,  most,  too  small  for  that,  and  so  bright  too !" 

It  was  no  use  denying  it — this  wreck  was  dearer — 
was  more  valuable  to  others,  as  a  wreck,  than  it  had 
been  in  full  panoply  and  strength.  He  was  accepting 
things — he  was  conquering  himself,  and  he  was  "  greater 
than  he  who  taketh  a  city!" 

So  there  I  left  him.  For  background,  he  had  his 
honest,  toilsome,  clean-thinking  past !  His  old  wife's 
faithful  love  was  as  the  blue  sky,  bowing  gently  over 
him.  The  slow,  still  sands  of  Time  piling  steadily 
about  him,  and  before  him  that  great,  illimitable  ocean 
of  Eternity,  which  will  at  last  receive  into  its  bosom 
this  fine,  old  hulk ! 


The  Gentleman  Who  Was  Going  to  Die 


The  Gentleman  Who  Was  Going  to  Die 

Of  course  he  had  a  name,  and  we  both  knew  it,  yet 
we  invariably  spoke  of  him  not  as  Clarka  nor  as  Mr. 
Clarks,  but  as  "  the  gentleman  who  was  going  to  die." 
We  must  have  been  a  troublesome  pair  of  "  little  pitch 
ers"  to  have  about,  with  our  widely  open  ears,  in  such 
a  place  and  at  such  a  time ;  and  I  remember  quite  well 
that  our  elders  were  much  annoyed  when  they  found 
that  we  knew  that  "  the  gentleman  was  going  to  die." 

I  was  three  years  older  than  my  companion,  and 
very,  very  serious ;  indeed,  he  was  the  only  child  who 
ever  made  me  enjoy  a  game  of  romps.  Pretty,  golden- 
haired,  laughing  little  fellow,  no  one  ever  resisted  him. 
He  passed  through  his  short  life  a  baby  Prince  Charm 
ing,  a  little,  conquering  hero. 

His  father  was  the  Sheriff  of  the  city,  and,  for  the 
time  being,  the  Sheriff's  family  lived  in  that  portion  of 
the  jail  reserved  for  home  life;  and  my  mother  was 
paying  a  long  visit  to  the  Sheriff's  wife.  That's  how 
it  happened  that  two  young  children  were  living  within 
those  sullen  walls,  taking  their  exercise  in  its  grim 
corridors  and  playing  their  games  within  the  very 
shadow  of  the  scaffold. 

In  pleasant  weather  we  used  to  play  out  in  the  jail- 
yard  ;  it  was  small,  but  not  so  closed  in  as  it  now  is  by 
the  Court-house.  At  that  time  the  court  stood  over 
in  the  Park,  or  Public  Square,  as  it  was  called.  Out 


72  A  Silent  Singer 

there  we  played  "  escaping  prisoner."  I,  as  the  Sheriff, 
had  to  run  down  and  bring  back  little  Goldy-locks 
(Charley  was  his  real  name)  as  prisoner.  He  was  very 
realistic  in  his  struggles  for  freedom,  as  certain,  big,  blue 
marks  on  my  arms  used  to  testify ;  but  whenever  he  saw 
them  he  would  put  penitent  little  lips  to  them  and  tell 
me  reassuringly  not  to  mind,  "cause  he  would  play 
Sheriff  to-morrow  and  I  cud  'scape,"  in  which  case  I 
knew  he  would  have  nearly  pounded  the  life  out  of 
me,  so  I  very  much  preferred  to  keep  my  part  of 
Sheriff. 

In  other  weather,  and  it  was  mostly  "  other  "  weather, 
we  sought  the  corridors  of  the  jail.  The  dwelling-rooms 
were  small  and  crowded,  and,  besides,  the  big  people 
were  all  the  time  "  donating  "  us — "  Don't  do  this  "  and 
"  don't  do  that " — so  Charley  would  rumple  his  curls 
with  a  small,  impatient  hand,  look  very  cross  for  a 
moment,  then  come  and  whisper,  "Let's  go  to  jail," 
and  straight  we  went  in  search  of  the  turnkey,  who  was 
Charley's  uncle  as  well  as  slave,  and  he  would  put  a  key 
into  a  great  lock  and  we  would  push  at  the  big,  heavy 
door.  Then  in  we  would  tumble,  and  the  door  would 
be  closed  behind  us,  unless  some  of  the  prisoners'  cells 
were  open.  In  that  case  the  turnkey  remained  inside 
the  corridor  with  us,  but  that  was  unusual. 

The  first  thing  we  always  did  was  to  run  to  each  cell 
and  peer  in  to  see  if  any  one  was  lying  down.  No  one 
had  ever  made  the  suggestion  to  us,  but  of  our  own 
accord  we  had  made  it  a  point  of  honor  never  to  make  a 


The  Gentleman  Who  Was  Going  to  Die       73 

noise  there  if  we  found  any  one  who  remained  on  his  cot 
after  our  arrival.  Generally  every  one  sprang  up  and 
came  to  the  barred  doors  to  greet  us,  always  with  nice 
words,  sometimes  with  very  gentle  ones.  Often  they 
would  lay  wagers  on  the  result  of  our  games.  We  used 
to  play  "tag"  and  "blind  man's  buff,"  and  we  played 
"  puss-in-the-corner  "  by  counting  every  other  cell  door 
a  corner. 

That  corridor  had  two  great  attractions  for  us.  One 
was  that  the  late  afternoon  sunlight  fell  through  the 
barred  window  at  its  end.  The  other  was  that  "the 
gentleman  who  was  going  to  die"  had  his  cell  there, 
and  Charley  loved  him,  while  I  was  filled  with  terror, 
dread  and  pity  by  the  sight  of  him.  There  were  three 
long,  troubled  years  between  Goldy-locks  and  me,  and  I 
knew  dreadful  things  about  Charley's  friend,  things  I 
dared  not  tell  him. 

With  every  human  being  in  or  about  the  jail  the  boy 
was  the  pet,  the  favorite  with  one  single  exception — "  the 
gentleman  who  was  going  to  die."  He  favored  me 
almost  to  the  point  of  adoration,  no  one  guessing  why 
till  he  himself  explained  the  mystery. 

My  heavy,  brown  braids  and  solemn,  saucer  eyes 
seemed  to  blind  him  utterly  to  the  touching  beauty  of 
Goldy-locks,  and  when  we  stood  before  his  cell  door 
while  he  told  wonderful  stories,  selected  especially  to 
suit  the  boy's  taste,  his  eyes  were  on  my  face,  his 
fingers  held  a  bit  of  my  little,  white  apron,  or  he  drew 
one  of  my  long  braids  between  the  crossed  bars  of  his  door 


74  A  Silent  Singer 

and  stroked  and  kissed  it.  Though  at  that  time  I  loved 
the  stories  and  liked  him,  I  could  never  quite  make  up 
my  mind  to  kiss  him,  and  Charley  used  to  be  angry 
about  it,  and  once  he  told  me  "I  wasn't  dratefu',  not 
one  we'est  bit  on  earf,  not  to  kiss  dear  4Mr.  No.  3  '  "  ; 
that's  what  we  always  called  him  before  we  knew  he  wns 
going  to  die — three  being  the  number  of  the  cell  in  which 
he  was  confined. 

When  I  first  learned  that  Mr.  Clarks  was  going  to 
surely  die,  on  a  certain  positively  named  day,  I  was  utterly 
amazed  to  find  that,  instead  of  being  frightened  and 
sorry  and  sending  for  doctors,  everybody  seemed  to  be 
pleased — that  is,  everybody  out  in  the  streets  and  in  the 
stores  and  markets,  and  being  an  active,  "two-legged 
why,"  I  sought  information  and  obtained  it  in  that  form 
known  to  man  as  "  straight."  He  to  whom  I  had  applied 
was  a  very  young  man,  who  knew  no  reason  why  a  child 
should  be  spared  such  horrible  knowledge,  and  so,  with 
brutal  frankness  and  ample  detail,  he  had  explained 
exactly  why  Charles  Clarks  was  going  to  die. 

It  was  the  first  tale  of  crime  that  had  been  poured 
into  my  shrinking,  childish  ears,  and  it  gave  me  a  dis 
tinct  shock.  I  was  quite  feverish  by  evening  and  had 
to  have  wet  cloths  applied  to  my  burning  head,  while 
during  the  night  I  cried  out  again  and  again  about  the 
"lightning  and  the  knife,"  and  the  next  day  found  me 
white  and  miserable,  with  only  one  strong  wish,  and 
that  was  to  keep  away  from  "  the  gentleman  who  was 
going  to  die." 


The  Gentleman  Who  Was  Going  to  Die       75 

It  was  so  hard  to  associate  the  man  with  the  bright, 
blue  eyes,  the  manly  voice,  the  gentle  hands — ugh! 
those  hands ! — with  that  wretch  who  had  hacked  the  life 
out  of  a  fellow-creature  for  a  sum  of  money.  It  seems 
curious,  but  the  actual  taking  of  the  man's  life  had  not 
near  the  power  to  torture  and  torment  me  that  this  com 
plete  ignoring  of  a  certain  sentiment  had.  The  victim 
had  been  a  fellow-countryman  who  was  unutterably 
homesick,  and  whose  joy  was  boundless  when  he  met  a 
friend  from  the  dear,  old  English  home.  I  would  moan 
aloud  when  I  thought  of  the  awful  surprise  and  horror 
the  man  must  have  felt  when  he  received  the  first  knife- 
thrust  in  his  breast  from  the  hand  of  a  brother-English 
man  in  a  strange  land.  Then  the  shocking  details  that 
followed  the  death !  The  crime  was  committed  at  night 
during  a  memorable  storm.  The  body  lay  upon  a  rail 
road  bridge ;  the  victim's  identity  must  be  destroyed ! 
The  murderer  attempted  to  remove  the  head ;  he  had 
but  his  big  clasp-knife,  and  it  was  not  strong  and  sharp 
enough  to  sever  the  bone  in  the  neck.  He  would  have 
to  leave  the  bridge  to  find  a  stone  to  serve  as  a  hammer 
in  this  frightful  deed !  But  in  that  inky  darkness  how 
was  he  to  find  his  way  back?  He  could  only  wait  for 
the  dazzling  glare  of  God's  great  flashlight,  the  light 
ning  ;  and  so  with  unshaken  nerves,  bit  by  bit  he  worked 
his  unhallowed  will.  He  found  the  stone  and  crammed 
it  into  his  pocket  (the  other  held  the  dead  man's 
effects);  the  knife  he  carried  between  his  teeth.  The 
mighty  wind  so  tore  at  him  that  on  the  bridge  he  had 


76  A  Silent  Singer 

to  creep  upon  his  hands  and  knees.  He  hacked  off  the 
head  and  tied  it  in  a  silk  neckerchief,  and  no  man 
knows  more  unto  this  day.  The  stream  was  dragged, 
trees  chopped  down,  open  ground  carefully  plowed,  all 
in  vain.  The  head  was  never  found. 

With  devilish  mirth  the  murderer  would  sometimes 
offer  to  find  the  head.  "  Leave  me  my  hands  free  and 
send  but  two  men,  your  bravest,  strongest  picked  men 
to  guard  me,  and  I  will  send  you  back  the  head — I 
swear  it !  "  he  would  say  ;  and  to  the  Sheriff's  smiling 
question,  "And  you?  You  say  'send,'  not  'bring.' 
Would  you  not  bring  the  head  back  ?  "  he  would  reply, 
"  Oh,  I  say  now,  you  don't  think  me  quite  a  fool,  do 
you?"  and  though  he  would  laugh  heartily  enough, 
there  would  be  a  quickening  of  his  breath  and  a  hot 
spark  away  back  in  his  eye  not  very  pleasant  nor  by 
any  means  reassuring  to  the  man  who  was  responsible 
for  his  safe  keeping. 

Two  days  after  I  had  picked  this  bitter  fruit  from 
the  tree  of  knowledge  I  found  myself,  under  the  orders 
of  my  yellow-haired,  little  tyrant,  slowly  and  unwillingly 
entering  the  jail  corridor  again.  Holding  me  by  the 
hand,  he  pulled  me  past  the  turnkey  and  made  straight 
for  the  dreaded  cell.  At  our  entrance  various  greet 
ings  reached  us  :  "  Hello,  babies  !  "  "  How  are  you, 
little  ones?  "  "  Come  up  here,  youngster,  where  I  can 
see  you ! "  while  the  man  with  the  cough  called 
out,  "  Sissy,  come  here  and  I'll  give  you  half  of  my 
licorice ! " 


The  Gentleman  Who  Was  Going  to  Die       77 

But  I  stood  in  silence,  my  eyes  fixed  upon  the  stone 
pavement,  while  my  little  companion,  trembling  with 
excitement,  put  his  first,  troubled,  anxious  question : 
"  Dear  Mr.  No.  3,  are  you  truly  a-goin'  to  die  ?  " 

The  silence  that  came  upon  the  occupants  of  the 
other  cells  at  this  question  might  have  been  the  silence 
of  death.  Mr.  No.  3  made  a  little  sound  like  that  the 
grown-ups  make  sometimes,  and  afterward  say  :  "  Oh, 
I  had  a  stitch  in  my  side ! "  and  then  he  answered, 
"  Why — er — yes,  my  boy — we  are  all  going  to  die — 
you  know  that !  " 

Charley's  delicate  brows  knit  themselves  together 
distressfully  as  he  slowly  murmured,  "  Yes,  evweybody. 
My  papa  is  the  biggest  mans  in  this  town  and  he's  goin' 
to  die,  the  whole  of  him,  only,  only — "  suddenly  his 
brow  cleared  and  he  hurried  on — "only  he  and  us  allis  jus' 
goin'  to  die  som'time,  not  a  'xac'ly  day  to  know  about. 
Are  you  goin'  to  die  in  free  weeks  ?  Please  don't !  " 

Instead  of  answering  directly,  he  turned  to  me  with, 
"What's  the  matter,  little  lass?  Why  don't  you 
speak  ;  are  you  sick,  child  ?  " 

I  thought  of  the  lightning  and  the  knife,  and  truly  I 
was  sick,  but  I  could  not  speak  ;  I  only  slipped  my 
hand  through  one  of  the  openings  in  the  door  and  clung 
silently  to  a  bar.  Charley  turned  and  looked  at  me, 
and  said  in  his  important,  little  way  :  "  I  dess  she's  got 
the  aches  in  her  head  ag'in  !  But  please,  Mr.  No.  3, 
what's  a-goin'  to  be  the  matter  wiv  you,  if  you  are 
goin'  to  die  ?  " 


78  A  Silent  Singer 

And  then  No.  3  laughed  a  laugh  that  made  me  cold, 
and  said,  "  Well,  your  father  and  some  of  his  friends 
think  I  am  going  to  die  of  a  throat  trouble,  but  I'll  bet 
five  dollars  they  are  mistaken !  "  and  then  again  he 
spoke  quietly  to  me  :  "  What  is  it,  child ;  why  are  you 
so  pale  ?  " 

He  gently  took  my  little  hand  in  his.  I  gave  a 
scream  and  tore  it  so  roughly  from  him  that  it  was 
badly  cut  in  passing  the  bars.  I  raised  my  face — and 
I  suppose  some  of  my  loathing  fear  and  horror  must 
have  been  written  there,  for  never  shall  I  forget  that 
next  moment !  He  was  looking  down  straight  into  my 
eyes,  when  suddenly  his  own  flared  wide  open,  then  as 
quickly  narrowing  to  the  merest,  glittering  slit,  he  gave 
the  most  awful  oath  I  ever  heard,  and  angrily  mut 
tered  :  "  They  have  told  her !  She  knows  all,  this  lit 
tle  child !  Oh,  how  could  they  do  it !  How  could 
they  do  it !  What  cruel  beasts  men  are !"  And  then 
rang  through  the  building  one  great,  appalling  cry,  like 
that  of  some  wild  beast  in  pain  and  rage.  At  that  cry 
all  was  wild  commotion.  The  turnkey  struck  out  one 
peal  from  the  alarm  bell,  and  was  tearing  open  the 
great  lock  of  the  main  door.  No.  3  suddenly  clenched 
his  soft,  white  hand  and  drove  it  with  all  his  force 
against  the  iron  bars.  The  blood  seemed  to  leap  from 
his  gashed  wrist  and  hand  and  fall  in  streams  down  into 
his  sleeve.  He  seized  the  bars  of  his  door  and  shook 
them  as  another  man  might  have  shaken  a  wooden 
lattice.  The  turnkey  was  at  the  cell ;  was  in ;  there 


The  Gentleman  Who  Was  Going  to  Die       79 

was  a  scuffle  of  feet.  The  heavy,  wordless  breathing 
of  desperate  men,  two  clear,  cold-sounding  clicks,  and 
No.  3,  with  white,  drawn  face,  lifted  his  manacled 
hands  high  above  his  head  to  strike  a  killing  blow, 
stopped  suddenly,  and  pitched  forward  on  his  cot,  face 
downward,  and  as  the  turnkey  hurried  us  out  of  the 
corridor  I  heard  that  dreadful  sound  that  wrings  with 
pain  all  there  is  of  womanhood  in  any  female  thing, 
whether  she  be  seventy  or  seven  years  old — the  sound 
of  a  strong  man's  sobs. 

The  next  morning  at  breakfast  we  learned  that  we 
were  all  invited  to  visit  Charley's  grandmother  in  the 
country,  and  his  father  was  going  to  send  us  in  a  day 
or  two. 

Little  Goldy-locks  raised  surprised  eyes  and 
remarked,  "I  fought  we  always  made  hot  visits  to 
drandma's  ?  " 

Now  his  adoring  grandparent  would  undoubtedly 
have  admitted  that  Charley  did  make  his  visits  warm 
for  her,  but  what  he  meant  was  that  their  visits  had 
always  been  paid  at  the  farm  in  hot  weather.  Getting 
no  answer,  he  went  on  :  "  What's  the  use,  there  ain't 
anything  grode  yet  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  his  mother,  "  there's  grass  and 
flowers,  and  perhaps  the  peach  trees  will  be  in 
blossom." 

There  was  a  little  silence,  then  lifting  his  dear  eyes 
to  his  father's  face,  he  asked,  "  Papa,  will  it  be  free 
weeks  while  we's  away?"  No  answer  came;  then 


80  A  Silent  Singer 

again,  "  Papa,  I  love  drandma  very  much,  but — but — 
the  gentleman  might  die  while  we's  all  away,  and  I'd 
be  so  sorry,  papa."  His  little  head  drooped,  and  the 
tears  ran  fast  down  his  cheeks.  My  mother  was  near 
est  to  him,  and  she  took  him  in  her  arms  and  stroked 
his  curly  hair  while  exchanging  looks  with  his  mother, 
and  his  father  raised  up  his  six-feet-two  of  height  and 
simply  fled  in  silence  from  the  sight  of  that  innocent, 
childish  grief. 

But  I  was  happy — happy  at  the  thought  of  getting 
away  from  the  place  where  "  the  gentleman  was  going 
to  die."  Charley  was  anxious  to  go  to  his  friend  at 
once  ;  he  said  he  had  "  free  whole  things  to  tell  him, 
most  'ticular." 

So  he  dragged  me  off  with  him,  and  lo !  there  sat  a 
strange  man  inside  the  corridor  and  right  beside  No. 
3's  door.  We  would  not  go  in  while  he  was  there,  so 
we  went  out  and  down  to  the  yard  together,  talking 
excitedly,  and  wondering  who  the  strange  man  was. 

There  we  heard,  as  we  managed  to  hear  everything, 
that  Mr.  No.  3  was  going  to  be  put  into  another  cell. 
Back  we  went  to  the  corridor  to  ask  about  that,  and 
there  sat  the  strange  man.  Then  Charley  grew  quite 
angry,  and,  turning  to  his  uncle,  said,  "  Why  don't 
you  give  that  man  a  cell  and  not  have  'im  settin'  roun' 
in  the  way  all  the  time  ?  " 

And,  under  cover  of  the  shouts  of  laughter  of  the 
prisoners,  we  retired  a  second  time,  defeated.  It  was 
late  in  the  afternoon  when  we  made  our  third  attempt 


The  Gentleman  Who  Was  Going  to  Die       81 

to  see  "  the  gentleman  who  was  going  to  die."  We 
had  little  hope  of  success,  but  suddenly,  to  Charley's 
great  joy,  we  saw  in  a  big,  square  cell,  the  strange  man, 
with  some  others,  trying  the  bars  with  hammers,  and 
we  slipped  past  and  begged  the  turnkey  to  let  us  into 
our  corridor  quick.  He  smiled  and  said,  "All  right, 
chicks  ;  I  guess  this  is  your  last  chance  at  No.  3  with 
out  the  watch.  Even  his  wife  won't  see  him  alone  next 
time  she  comes." 

As  we  tumbled  past  the  big  door  the  sunlight  burst 
out  from  behind  a  cloud.  Charley  gave  a  shout,  and 
crying,  "  You  can't  catch  me  'fore  I  touch  the  sun 
shine,"  bounded  away  toward  the  window.  He  was 
well  ahead,  but  I  started  after  him,  and  almost  in  the 
same  instant  I  saw  him  slip  and  throw  out  his  arms. 
He  did  not  trip ;  he  slid  exactly  as  though  he  had  been 
on  the  ice,  and  then  fell  heavily,  face  down  on  the  stone 
floor.  There  were  many  exclamations  of  pity  as  I 
rushed  to  him,  crying,  "  Oh,  Charley,  darling !  are  you 
hurt  very  badly  ?  " 

I  stooped  over  to  help  him,  but  instead  of  rising  at 
once,  he  turned  slowly  over  and  sat  for  a  moment 
on  the  floor  and  said,  "  What  made  me  slip?  "  I  only 
repeated,  "Are  you  hurt,  dear  ?  "  and  though  his  lips 
quivered  piteously,  he  bravely  answered,  "  No ;  only 
some  places  smart  some,  that's  all." 

And  all  the  time  that  I  was  lifting  him  to  his  feet 
and  noting  the  steady  spread  of  that  cruel  mark  on  his 
face,  I  was  conscious,  coldly  conscious,  that  at  No.  3's 


82  A  Silent  Singer 

door  I  had  seen  no  face,  from  No.  3's  cell  I  had  heard 
no  voice.  Once  again  Charley  lifted  up  his  puzzled 
eyes  to  me  and  said,  "What  made  me  slip?"  and  put 
ting  his  arm  around  my  waist  to  steady  himself,  he 
raised  his  right  foot,  and  resting  it  on  his  left  knee  he 
looked  at  the  sole  of  his  little  slipper  and  it  was  wet. 

I  leaned  over  and  passed  my  forefinger  across  it  to 
make  sure,  then  without  thought  drew  my  finger  down 
my  white  apron  and  left  a  long  red  smear.  The  man  in 
the  cell  nearest  us  groaned.  I  gasped,  "  Blood !  "  and 
Charley  hid  his  face  in  my  garments  and  trembled  like 
a  leaf.  Holding  him  tight  with  my  both  arms  I  looked 
behind  me,  and  there  across  the  gray,  stone  floor,  slow, 
sluggish  and  sinister,  there  crept  a  narrow,  dark-red 
stream,  silent,  so  stealthily  silent,  and  yet  in  that 
instant's  pause  I  seemed  to  understand  the  excitement 
it  would  presently  create. 

A  moment  we  stood  a  pair  of  terror-shaken  children ; 
then  holding  Charley  in  my  arms  I  rushed  madly  for 
the  corridor  door.  The  turnkey,  peacefully  reading  his 
paper,  heard  us  coming  and  said,  "Not  through  already?" 

Then  as  he  turned  his  head  his  face  went  white  as  he 
finished  with,  "  What  is  it  ?  " 

I  laid  my  hand  upon  the  smear  on  my  white  apron 
and  gasped,  "  Blood ! " 

He  was  unlocking  the  door  as  he  said,  "Where?" 

I  pointed  a  flickering  forefinger  at  the  slow  stream 
and  answered,  "  No.  3,"  and  as  he  rushed  past  us  he 
cried,  "  I  knew  it !  God !  I  knew  it ! " 


The  Gentleman  Who  Was  Going  to  Die       83 

Before  he  reached  the  cell  door  he  called  back  to  me, 
"  Ring  the  bell— hard— hard  !  " 

I  pulled  the  big  bell  and  then  pandemonium  broke 
loose.  The  narrow,  silent,  little  stream  was  beginning 
to  show  its  power.  I  hurried  down  the  back  stairs  and 
put  Charley  in  the  hands  of  a  housemaid,  who  cared  for 
his  hurts  and  put  him  in  bed  and  sat  by  him,  while  I, 
making  myself  as  small  as  possible,  crept  back  through 
the  jail  corridors  because  I  could  not  keep  away. 

All  was  excitement.  The  wildest  rumors  had  already 
reached  the  private  part  of  the  building.  No  one  noticed 
me.  I  crept  up  the  stairs,  and  for  a  little  while  dared 
go  no  farther.  While  I  waited  there  people  went  and 
came.  One  man,  tall  and  bearded,  with  a  black  box  or 
case  like  a  big  book  in  his  hand,  I  recognized  as  a  doctor. 

I  softly  followed  the  path  that  all  had  taken  to  No.  3's 
corridor.  I  stood  still  in  the  doorway  for  the  very 
excellent  reason  that  I  had  lost  all  power  of  movement. 
Once  glance  told  me  the  little,  red  stream  I  had  seen 
creeping  from  beneath  the  door  of  cell  No.  3  was  gone, 
the  stones  being  still  wet  from  their  washing,  while  a 
second  one  told  me  more  washing  would  be  required 
presently.  At  the  far  end  of  the  hall,  on  the  floor 
beneath  the  window,  was  stretched  the  form  of  "  the 
gentleman  who  was  going  to  die."  His  lower  limbs 
were  fully  clothed,  but  from  the  upper  part  of  his  body 
they  had  cut  the  clothing  and  he  was  nude.  At  his 
feet  knelt  two  men  who  used  all  their  strength  in  trying 
to  hold  him  down.  At  each  shoulder  knelt  a  man  who 


84  A  Silent  Singer 

grasped  him  by  wrist  and  forearm,  and  with  dripping 
brows  bent  over  him  with  the  same  purpose  in  view. 
The  doctor,  on  his  knees,  was  leaning  across  him,  while 
a  step  away  Charley's  mother  stood  with  her  face  covered 
with  both  hands,  and  each  and  every  one  had  fearsome, 
bright  red  stains  upon  them.  A  sudden  thought  came 
piercing  through  my  dulled  brain,  a  thought  that  brought 
me  near  to  my  undoing.  I  said,  "  Can  this  be  justice  ! 
Are  they  going  to  repeat  here  in  this  very  jail  the  awful 
act  committed  on  the  railroad  bridge  that  stormy 
night?"  I  am  certain  that  a  roll  of  thunder  at  that 
moment  would  have  killed  me  outright.  As  it  was,  my 
eyes  closed,  and  I  had  a  faint  feeling  of  wonder  as  to 
whether  I  was  going  to  fall  asleep.  Fortunately,  I 
heard  certain  words  that  dismissed  the  grotesque  fear 
and  gave  me  back  a  little  strength ;  words  of  advice,  of 
stern  command,  of  argument,  and  once  sobbing  words 
of  entreaty.  But  through  them  almost  continuously 
there  rose  a  sound  of  horror.  I  thought  then,  and  I 
have  never  changed  the  thought  since,  that  it  was  like 
the  fierce  growling  and  snapping  of  a  mad  dog. 

Encouraged  by  the  words  I  had  heard  from  all,  I 
opened  my  eyes.  At  that  same  instant  the  doctor,  with 
a  gesture  of  despair,  raised  himself,  and  I  was  looking 
full  into  the  awful  face  of  Charles  Clarks,  murderer 
and  would-be  suicide.  He  had  attacked  the  citadel  of 
his  life  at  his  throat.  With  an  almost  ludicrously  inade 
quate  weapon  he  had  done  terrific  work,  and  had  almost 
carried  out  his  purpose.  He  lay  there  now,  that  thing 


The  Gentleman  Who  Was  Going  to  Die       85 

to  marvel  at — a  fighting  Englishman  brought  to  bay. 
And  I,  a  little,  shivering  child,  stood  there  witness  to 
a  savage  struggle,  awful  beyond  description,  and  gath 
ered  up  and  let  go  of  my  apron  with  the  regularity  of  a 
mechanical  toy,  while  in  a  whisper  I  said,  and  said,  and 
said,  perhaps  a  thousand  times — I  do  not  know — "  Oh, 
our  Father!  Oh,  our  Father!  Oh,  our  Father!"  And 
one  man  with  a  gashed  throat  and  veins  nearly  empty 
battled  madly  for  death  against  six  strong  fellow- 
creatures  who  fought  with  equal  desperation  to  save 
him !  "  Oh,  our  Father !"  What  a  smile  when  he 
heard  the  doctor  say,  "  Chloroform  could  not  be  brought 
before  the  light  had  gone."  The  doctor  saw,  and  his 
face  grew  like  stone,  and  he  said,  "  He  shall  be  held ! 
The  wounds  must  be  stitched  at  once !" 

He  bent  again  to  his  attempted  work,  and  instantly 
the  ghastly  head  was  jerked  this  way  and  that,  and 
there  rose  again  the  growling  and  the  snapping.  The 

doctor  raised  his  head  and  said  coldly,  "  Mrs.  B , 

you  must  save  us ;  you  must  hold  his  head !" 

A  cry  rang  through  the  jail,  and  in  an  instant  No.  3 
was  still.  She  said,  "  I  can't !  I  can't !" 

The  doctor  insisted.  "  Your  husband  will  be  a  ruined 
man  if  this  prisoner  dies  before  his  time.  Kneel  there  !" 

She  knelt.  No.  3  said,  in  his  strange,  whistling  sort 
of  voice,  "  You  have  been  good  to  me,  but  do  this  thing 
and  I  will  curse  you  here  and  from  the  Hell  I'm  going  to." 

The  doctor  commanded,  "  Put  one  hand  here,  the 
other  there,  and  hold  firmly  with  all  your  strength !" 


86  A  Silent  Singer 

Then  as  five  held  him  the  sewing  was  accomplished, 
and  I  turned  to  fly  from  the  hurt  I  thought  the  needle 
might  give  him,  and  stumbled  to  my  mother's  bed.  She 
was  not  there  ;  all  thought  I  was  safe  by  little  Charley, 
and  I  fell  upon  my  knees  and  went  right  on  muttering 
"  Oh,  our  Father !"  until  I  began  to  feel  very  light, 
and  then  to  float,  float,  and  the  next  I  knew  it  was 
morning  and  I  was  very  sick,  but  a  maid  told  me  that 
"  the  gentleman  who  was  going  to  die  "  was  not  dead  yet. 

The  attempted  suicide  caused  the  greatest  confusion 
and  excitement  both  inside  and  outside  the  jail.  People 
were  coming  and  going  at  all  hours,  and  the  grown-ups 
were  more  than  ever  anxious  to  get  us  away  to  the  coun 
try.  Mrs.  B would  not  leave  her  husband  at  such 

a  time,  so  my  mother  was  to  take  us  both  the  next  day. 

Little  Goldy-locks  never  gave  up  his  intention  of 
seeing  and  saying  good-bye  to  the  gentleman  who  was 
trying  so  hard  to  die  (in  his  own  way).  So  through 
tears  and  kisses,  and  by  bringing  to  bear  all  his  graces 
of  body  and  manner,  the  little  fellow  won  his  way,  and 
just  before  leaving  mother  led  us  (dressed  for  our  jour 
ney)  to  the  cell,  and  the  uncle-turnkey  let  us  in.  A 
nurse  crossly  admonished  us  all  not  to  talk  too  much, 
and  then  we  were  standing  by  the  bed.  At  the  first 
sight  of  the  ghastly  face — the  grimly  bandaged  throat 
and  jaws  and  brow — the  little  lad  gave  a  cry  of  terror. 
But  when  Mr.  No.  3  said  softly,  "  Charley !"  he  ran 
and  swarmed  up  the  bed  with  legs  and  arms,  crying, 
"Oh,  dear,  dear  Mr.  No.  3  !  I  fought  it  wasn't  you! 


The  Gentleman  Who  Was  Going  to  Die      87 

Who  hurted  you?  My  papa  will  find  out  and  he  will 
put  the  man  in  a  cell,  and  we  won't  never  go  and  see 
'im,  never !" 

Then  being  told  he  must  not  talk  so  loud  and  that  he 
must  hurry,  he  said  very  earnestly,  as  he  brought  from 
his  pocket  a  small,  red  wad,  "  Here,  Mr.  No.  3,  here's 
my  wed  stocking  ;  I  got  it  my  ownse'f  for  you.  If  your 
froat  should  get  sore,  like  you  said,  you  dess  put  it  on 
at  night  and  you'll  come  all  well  in  the  morning — dess 
like  I  did." 

A  smile  parted  the  man's  white  lips  as  he  said, 
"  Thank  you,  my  boy — I  may  try  it — though  I  suppose 
— hemp  would  suit — my  case — better  than  wool." 

All  this  time  his  eyes  had  gone  past  Charley  and 
were  on  me.  My  mother  noticed  it,  and  now  he  hur 
riedly  whispered  "  Good-bye,"  and  as  Charley  was  taken 
down  he  motioned  to  have  me  lifted  up  into  his  place. 
Then  in  a  whispering  voice  he  said  to  my  mother, 
"  You  think — it  strange — eh,  well ! — it's  because  she  is 
— so  wonderfully  like — my  child — my  only  one — my 
Annie.  It's  marvelous — the  likeness.  It's  not  that 
they  both — have  that  same — surprising  length  of  hair 
— the  same  wide,  gray-blue  eyes — the  same  tricks — of 
manner  and  movement — even  to  that  habit  of  standing 
— with  hands  behind  the  back — gently  pulling  at  the 
two  great  braids.  But  it's  the  voice.  I've  been  ready 
— to  swear  at  times — that  my  wife — had  broken  her 
vow — and  had  brought — Annie  to  see  me.  And  though 
I  starve — for  the  sight  of  her — until  at  times  I'm 


88  A  Silent  Singer 

almost  mad — I'd  kill  my  wife — if  she  brought — the 
child  here — to  know  my  shame.  And  this  little  one — 
is  so  like  her — so  like  and  yet  so  different — for  Annie 
loves  me — while  this  child ' 

I  felt  my  face  flame  with  hot  blood,  for  my  mother 
did  not  know  I  had  been  told  of  the  murder,  and  I  was 
frightened,  but  he  went  on  gently,  "Ah,  well,  there  is 
no  reason  why  this  one  should — love  me — a  stranger. " 

The  nurse  exclaimed,  "  Too  much  talk." 

Mother  moved  toward  the  door,  but  Charley  broke 
from  her  and  once  more  climbed  up  on  the  bed.  "  I 
have  dess  one  'ticular  thing  to  say,  dess  one!"  he 
pleaded,  and  he  stooped  to  whisper  to  the  sick  man, 
"Dear,  dear  Mr.  No.  3 — try  to  get  well — and — and — I 
know  you  don't  like  the  preacher  man,  but  I  know  my 
own  night  'prays'  my  ownse'f,  and  when  I  say  'my 
soul  to  keep'  I'll  say  'your  soul  to  keep,'  too,  every 
time!" 

And  Clarks  groaned,  "For  God's  sake  take  him 
away!"  and  Goldy-locks  put  his  clean,  sweet,  little 
pink  lips  lovingly  to  those  sin-stained,  fever-parched 
ones  and  said  "  Good-bye,  good-bye !"  and  slid  down  and 
ran  and  hid  his  tears  in  the  folds  of  my  mother's  dress. 

I  moved  to  leave  the  bed,  but  he  laid  a  detaining 
hand  lightly  upon  me.  I  shivered,  and  looking  up  I 
met  his  gaze  and  was  held  by  it.  It  was  pleading — 
commanding,  almost  compelling.  I  understood  him 
perfectly,  and  I  tried  hard  to  break  away  from  that 
controlling  glance,  but  all  in  vain,  until  a  dimness  came 


The  Gentleman  Who  Was  Going  to  Die       89 

across  his  eyes  and  slow  tears  gathered  there.  Then  I 
wrenched  my  eyes  from  his  and  hung  my  head  and 
whispered,  "  Good-bye."  As  my  mother  called  me  I 
slid  off  the  bed  to  go  to  her,  but  the  hoarse  whisper 
came,  "  Little  torment !"  and  I  stopped.  Again,  "  Dear, 
little  torment!"  and  foolishly  I  looked  at  him,  and  for 
the  last  time  our  struggle  was  renewed,  and  now  I  had 
to  resist  not  only  his  pleading,  but  that  of  something 
within  me  that  said,  "  Think  of  his  little  daughter  who 
cannot  tell  him  good-bye,  and  kiss  him  for  her  sake." 
Almost  I  yielded — and  then — the  homesick  friend,  the 
bridge,  the  knife,  and  I  threw  back  my  head  violently 
and  exclaimed,  "  No !  No !  I  can't !  but—  '  and  I 
laid  my  little  hand  against  his  lips.  He  took  it  gently, 
gently,  and  sighing  heavily  he  kissed  it,  palm  and  back, 
and  every  dimple,  including  the  tiny  one  in  my  wrist, 
and  every  finger-tip,  and  then  said  under  his  breath, 
as  it  were,  "  Good-bye,  little  maid  who  knows  her  own 
mind,"  and  as  the  key  was  turning  in  the  lock  after  we 
had  gone  from  the  cell  we  heard  him  give  a  husky 
laugh  and  say,  "She's  got  a  will — it's  stronger  than 
mine — for,  mind  you,  she  never  kissed  me!" 

And  that  was  our  last  sight  of  "  the  gentleman  who 
was  going  to  die,"  because  that  bright  day,  when  Charley 
and  I  were  out  making  the  acquaintance  of  a  very 
remarkable  calf — remarkable  because  its  forequarters 
were  mild  and  gentle,  while  its  hindquarters  stung  like 
an  adder — and  we  were  about  to  play  marketing,  and  we 
both  had  a  desire  to  purchase  the  forequarters  of  the  calf, 


90  A  Silent  Singer 

and  as  we  never  quarreled  we  drew  lots  for  choice,  while 
the  calf  slowly  chewed  up  our  market  basket — and  at 
that  very  moment,  in  the  city,  Goldy-locks'  beloved 
"  Mr.  No.  3  "  was  heading  a  procession  to  the  scaffold 
with  many  a  jest  about  the  "  blue  funk  "  he  said  the 
men  were  in  about  him.  He  remarked  their  pale  faces 
and  trembling  hands,  and  actually  encouraged  and 
advised  them,  himself  directing  the  proper  placing  of  the 
fatal  knot.  Then  with  alert,  springy  step,  bright  eye 
and  cheerful  voice  he  mounted  the  scaffold,  stepped  with 
quick  obedience  upon  the  trap,  and  was  hurled  out  of 
this  world  into — what  ? 

White  and  cold  and  silent  his  wife  removed  her 
coffined  dead,  and  when  we  returned  "  the  gentleman 
who  was  going  to  die  "  had  died.  He  was  gone,  and 
his  cell  and  corridor  knew  him  no  more. 


Old  Myra's  Waiting 


Old  Myra's  Waiting 

Was  she  mad  ?  I  do  not  know.  I  only  know  that 
she  was  old,  oh !  very  old,  and  had  known  such  sorrows 
as  break  the  heart  and  blast  the  intellect  of  many  of  her 
sex.  So  old,  so  fragile — so  poor — with  a  wit  like 
polished  steel  and  a  tongue  like  an  adder.  I  was  her 
one  friend  in  the  world  and  was  as  helpless  as  herself. 
We  each  earned  our  own  living — that  was  the  one 
experience  we  had  in  common.  Save  for  that,  there  was 
a  whole  world  between  us.  She  stood  wavering  and 
unstrung  at  one  end  of  life  —  I  stood  quivering  and 
tense  at  the  other  end.  She  had  known  it  all,  all,  and 
only  wished  to  sleep,  to  forget — I  knew  nothing,  and 
only  longed  to  learn,  to  feel,  to  know. 

The  first  time  I  saw  her  she  stood  on  the  bank  of 
the  lake,  a  little,  swaying,  black-robed,  figure,  facing  a 
blinding  gale.  The  wild  wind  tore  her  pitifully  thin 
shawl  from  her  shoulders  and  sent  it  whirling  down 
the  lonely  street.  I  set  my  long,  young  legs  in  motion 
and  ran  it  down,  and  returning,  put  it  about  her  sharp, 
old  shoulders. 

She  gave  me  one  piercing  glance  from  the  blackest 
eyes  I  ever  saw.  Her  dry,  pale  lips  drew  back  across 
her  rather  long,  narrow  teeth  in  a  sort  of  smile,  and  she 
said :  "  My  dear,  you  are  a  wonder  ;  few  young  people 
condescend  to  run  like  that,  particularly  for  the  old. 
I  thank  you !  " 


94  A  Silent  Singer 

She  turned  her  face  again  to  the  lake.  Though  I 
found  it  hard  to  keep  my  position,  she  somehow  man 
aged  to  maintain  hers,  frail  as  she  was.  I  was  puz 
zled — why  was  she  standing  there,  so  thinly  clad?  I 
hesitated  a  moment,  then  I  said  as  respectfully  as  I 
could : 

"  Madame — could  you  not  go  into  one  of  those 
houses,  or  home,  perhaps,  and  let  me  wait  here  for 
your  message  or — or  friend,  and  then  come  and  tell 
you?" 

She  turned  her  sharp  eyes  upon  my  face,  and 
exclaimed :  "  God  bless  my  soul !  the  girl  means  a 
kindness  to  me !  "  and  she  laughed  a  shrill,  thin  peal 
of  mocking  laughter  that  made  me  hot  with  shame  and 
anger  too,  and  I  turned  away  with  a  brief  UI  beg 
your  pardon ;"  but  she  could  be  quick  if  she  was  old, 
and  her  claw-like  hand  was  on  my  wrist  in  a  moment, 
and  her  sharp  voice  reached  me  through  the  wind  :  "I 
can't,  my  dear,  I  can't  leave  now !  You  see  my  treas 
ures  are  out  there,  and  if  they  should  be  given  up,  I 
want  to  be  at  hand.  Go  home !  my  dear  —  go  home, 
where  people  are  not  old  and  mad,  and  do  not  wait  for 
the  sea  to  give  up  their  dead,"  and  turned  again  to  face 
the  gale,  while  I  flew  like  the  wind  from  her  strange 
presence. 

Some  weeks  passed  before  I  saw  her  again,  and  then, 
as  it  happened,  was  able  to  do  her  a  second  small  ser 
vice.  The  day  was  wet  and  windy,  the  streets  muddy. 
I  was  hurrying  down  Bank  street  and  was  about  to 


Old  Myra's  Waiting  95 

cross  an  alley-way,  which  opens  on  that  street,  when  I 
heard  a  little  cry  behind  me,  and  there  rolled  past  my 
feet  a  very  neatly  done  up,  small  package,  with  a  large 
seal  on  it  in  red  wax.  It  stopped  in  the  middle  of 
the  alley  directly  in  front  of  an  advancing  dray-horse. 
I  snatched  it  up  and  sprang  across  to  the  sidewalk, 
where  I  waited  for  the  owner,  who  came  hurrying  across 
with  anxions  face  and  outstretched  hands  ;  and  behold ! 
there  was  my  strange,  old  lady  again. 

She  seized  the  package,  and  examining  it  carefully,  she 
muttered,  more  to  herself  than  to  me :  "I  hope  it's 
safe,  a  fortune  blowing  about  the  muddy  streets  like 
that!" 

My  face  must  have  been  an  expressive  one ;  at  all 
events  she  read  it  like  a  book,  and  went  on  rather  sneer- 
ingly: 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  mad ;  at  least,  not  now  !  This  does 
not  belong  to  me  ;  it  would  not  be  a  fortune  if  it  did ; 
it's  lace — old,  rare  and  very  valuable !  Had  it  been 
ruined  ?  Oh,  it  makes  me  quite  faint  to  think  of  such 
a  chance !  I  am  really  very  grateful  to  you,  my 
child ! " 

She  spoke  her  thanks  so  gracefully  that  I  felt  myself 
grow  pink  with  pleasure. 

We  walked  side  by  side  a  little  way,  when  she  said : 
"  My  dear,  I'm  not  a  stupid  woman,  but  I  can't  quite 
make  you  out.  Your  speech  and  bearing  says  one 
thing,  but  your  being  out  so  much,  quite  unattended, 
says  another.  Oh  !  I've  seen  you  many  times  since 


96  A  Silent  Singer 

that  day  at  the  lake.  Then,  your  clothes — they  are  too 
good  for  poverty ;  but  you  wear  the  same  things  too 
often  to  have  generous  and  well-to-do  parents.  No,  I 
don't  quite  understand." 

We  were  right  at  the  door  of  the  old  "  Academy  " 
then,  and  I  stopped,  saying :  "  I  go  in  here  ;  there  is  a 
rehearsal ;  I  am  a  member  of  the  company." 

I  never  saw  such  fire  as  could  leap  into  those 
fierce,  old  eyes  of  hers — at  that  moment  they  fairly 
blazed. 

"  Here,  you ! — you  with  that  clean,  honest,  young 
face  !  For  fifty  years  I've  had  a  curse,  hot  and  burn 
ing  in  my  heart,  for  theatres  and  all  connected  with 
them !  " 

Then  angrily  shaking  her  forefinger  at  me,  she 
cried : 

"  You  run  up  your  flag,  girl ! — your  flag  of  red 
and  black,  of  paint  and  dye  ! — that  honest  craft  may 
know  there's  a  pirate  in  these  waters !  "  and,  dragging 
her  veil  across  her  face,  she  left  me  standing  there, 
divided  between  the  desire  to  laugh  and  the  desire  to 
cry.  A  pirate  ?  I  was  such  a  harmless,  well-meaning, 
little  pirate  that  even  had  I  shown  the  flag,  and  black 
ened  my  lashes  and  rouged  my  cheeks,  I  doubt  if  I  should 
have  created  a  very  great  panic  in  the  Cleveland  ship 
ping — and  so,  at  last,  the  laugh  won  ;  and  between  laughs 
I  said  aloud  :  "I  am  a  pirate  !  I  am  a  pirate  !  "  And 
so  a  member  of  the  company  found  me,  and  paused 
and  looked  me  gravely  over,  and,  wagging  his 


Old  Myra's  Waiting  97 

head  desperately,  said :  "It  seems  incredible,  such 
meanness  in  one  so  young,  but  you  will  bear  in  mind 
I  saw  this  myself — a  girl  of  sixteen,  who  knows  a  good 
story,  takes  herself  out  into  a  cold,  damp  hall,  and  tells 
this  story  to  herself,  and  laughs  and  laughs  all  to  her 
self,  and  then  wipes  her  mouth  and  goes  in  seriously 
and  sadly  to  join  her  defrauded  brother  and  sister 
artistes.  Clara,  I  wouldn't  have  believed  it  of  you  !  " 

I  had  to  tell  him  what  I  was  really  laughing  at. 

"  Good  Lord !  "  he  said,  "  that  was  old  Mrs.  Worden. 
Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  you  don't  know  her  ?  She's  a 
terror,  is  old  Myra !  She  used  to  carry  this  town  in 
her  pocket.  She  was  young  then,  and  rich,  and  they 
do  say  Myra  was  a  beauty.  Hard  to  believe  that,  isn't 
it?" 

44 1  don't  think  so,"  I  replied.  "  Her  features  are  really 
perfect.  Her  eyes  must  have  been  very  fine ;  her  hair 
black,  and  her  figure  very  graceful." 

"  Perhaps  ,  "  he  yawned,  "  but  she  has  the  sharpest 
tongue  and  the  longest  memory  in  Cleveland.  How 
she  does  lash  some  of  our  public  men  !  You  know  the 
rector  of  Christ  Church,  the  party  who  abuses  theatres 
so  often  ?  Well,  one  day  there  was  a  race  between 
the  ancient  Myra  and  the  long-winded  Keverend.  She 
was  overhauling  him  fast,  and  he  knew  it.  These  doors 
stood  open — theatre  doors.  He  was  between  the  devil 
and  the  deep  sea,  and — well,  quite  properly,  he  chose 
the  deep  sea,  and  slid  in  here,  and  behind  that  bill 
board.  Had  he  only  known  it,  he  need  not  have  gone 


98  A  Silent  Singer 

behind  that  board  for  shelter,  for  nothing  on  earth  could 
induce  the  ancient  dame  to  enter  the  door  of  a  theatre ; 
so  he  would  have  been  safe  had  he  merely  stepped 
inside.  As  soon  as  she  had  passed,  he  tried  to  slip  out 
unnoticed,  but  /was  on  the  spot,  I  am  proud  to  say, 
when  I  was  least  wanted,  and,  lifting  my  hat,  I 
informed  him  that  if  he  wanted  seats  he  would  find  the 
box-office  at  the  head  of  the  stairs.  He  glared  at  me, 
and  then  I  offered  to  run  up  and  get  him  a  programme 
of  the  evening's  performance,  but  he  snorted  something 
about  4  mistaking  the  entrance,'  and  got  away.  Well," 
my  companion  added,  with  a  self-satisfied  look,  "if 
there  is  anyone  in  town]  who  has  not  heard  of  that  chase 
and  escape,  it's  not  my  fault." 

"  But  why,"  I  asked,  "  does  Mrs.  Worden  dislike 
theatres  so  greatly?" 

"  My  dear  girl,"  replied  my  friend  Lewis,  "  I  just  love 
to  instill  knowledge  into  your  hungry,  young  mind,  but 
fifty  cents  are  always  full  fifty  cents  to  me,  and  if  I 
stand  here  stuffing  you  with  valuable  information,  I 
shall  be  late  to  rehersal,  and  fifty  cents  forfeit  will  be 
torn  from  my  unwilling  pocket-book.  So  en  avant" 
and  we  both  turned  our  faces  stageward. 

The  next  day  was  very  stormy  and  bitter  cold.  My 
mother  insisted  upon  my  wrapping  her  shawl  about  me 
as  an  extra  protection,  but  I  had  not  gone  more  than  a 
block  or  two  before  I  was  in  trouble.  The  wind  tore 
at  me,  the  small  pins  could  not  stand  the  strain,  they 
gave  way,  open  went  the  shawl.  The  wind  caught  it, 


Old  Myra's  Waiting  99 

and  slapped  my  face  with  it,  and  flung  it  flapping 
noisily  through  the  air.  I  grabbed  for  it,  jumped  up 
at  it,  waltzed  around  and  tried  to  catch  it ;  but  truth 
to  tell  that  shawl  could  be  found  most  any  place  in 
the  street  except  on  my  shoulders.  While  I  was  labor 
ing  like  a  ship  in  a  high  sea,  I  heard  some  one  knocking 
on  a  window  pane,  and  just  as  I  began  thinking  I 
should  have  to  scud  under  bare  poles  for  home,  the 
knocking  was  repeated  so  very  loudly  that  I  looked  up, 
and,  to  my  astonishment,  there  stood  Mrs.  Worden !  I 
was  amazed,  because  I  had  supposed  the  house  to  be 
unoccupied.  The  lower  part  was  so,  but  at  the  upper 
window  she  was  standing  and  making  signs  for  me  to 
cross  over  to  her.  Still  wrestling  madly  with  the 
shawl,  I  plunged  over.  The  old  lady  opened  the  front 
door,  showing  an  empty  and  bare  hall,  and  holding 
tightly  to  the  door  itself,  to  keep  from  being  blown 
backward,  she  motioned  with  her  head  for  me  to  come 
in.  I  obeyed,  and  stood  leaning  against  the  unfriendly- 
looking  wall,  trying  to  regain  my  breath.  Mrs.  Wor 
den  smiled  sardonically  at  me,  and  remarked : 

"  I  don't  think  you  will  get  to  your  precious  rehearsal 
to-day  at  that  rate  of  speed.  I've  been  watching  you 
prancing  about  with  that  shawl,  and  I've  brought  you 
down  this." 

She  held  out  to  me  a  shawl  pin.  As  I  took  it,  I 
found  it  was  yet  warm  from  the  hand  of  its  maker 
since  it  was  formed  of  a  stout  darning  needle  with  a 
ball  of  red  sealing  wax  for  a  head.  She  had  seen  my 


100  A  Silent  Singer 

trouble  and  had  hastily  made  this  shawl-pin  especially 
for  me.  I  was  surprised  beyond  speech  for  a  moment, 
and  she  mistook  my  silence,  for  she  began  to  jeer." 

"  Oh,  use  it,  use  it !  If  you  can  keep  that  shawl 
about  you  it  may  save  you  from  a  sickness.  Then  you 
can  hide  the  pin  from  the  sight  of  those  lords  and 
ladies  at  your  great,  fine  theatre.  They  are  so  artistic, 
I  fear  its  roughness  and  lack  of  finish  might  jar  upon 
them." 

But  I  shook  my  head,  and,  smiling  broadly  at  her,  I 
said: 

"It's  no  use,  Mrs.  Worden,  you  can  never  frighten 
me  again.  I  know  you  now,  and  you  are  good  and  kind." 

A  sort  of  wonder  came  upon  her:  "  Good  God  !  "  she 
cried.  "You  must  be  madder  than  I  am!"  then  she 
turned  her  eyes  to  the  rough,  gray  lake  spreading  far 
before  us,  and  on  her  face  there  grew  the  look  it  wore 
the  first  time  I  saw  her.  She  spoke  out  quite  distinctly, 
but  apparently  not  to  me : 

"  I  wonder  if  you  hear  ?  "  she  said.  "  I  wonder?  " 
You  used  to  call  me  good  and  kind,  aye,  and  dear,  but 
that's  five  and  forty  years  ago,  a  weary  time  my  pretty  s! 
Perhaps  the  sign  is  coming  soon — " 

I  stood  a  moment,  then  I  laid  my  hand  gently  on 
her  arm  and  said :  "  See,  now,  how  safe  the  shawl  is  ; 
I  thank  you  very  much,  and  I  shall  get  to  the  rehear 
sal  in  time,  after  all."  She  looked  a  bit  bewildered 
for  a  moment,  then  she  asked:  "  Shall  you  be  long 
to-day?" 


Old  Myra's  Waiting  101 

"  Oh,  no,"  I  answered,  "  I  shall  be  through  very 
early." 

"Then  suppose  you  stop  in  here  a  bit  and  have  a 
cup  of  coffee?" 

I  accepted  the  invitation  eagerly,  and,  as  I  ran  down 
the  steps,  she  called  to  me  :  »'  You,  girl,  who  won't  be 
frightened  any  more,  I  may  be  out  when  you  come ;  see, 
here's  where  you'll  find  the  key,  and  just  go  right  up 
to  the  front  room  and  wait  for  me." 

I  nodded,  and  started  again,  but  once  more  through 
the  wind  came  her  shrill  call:  "You,  girl,  don't  you 
touch  the  fire,  if  you  have  to  wait ;  mind  now,  don't 
touch  it;  I  attend  to  that  myself." 

The  door  slammed  shut,  and  I  was  slammed  down 
the  windy  street,  but  in  considerable  comfort,  now  that 
the  thick  shawl  was  fastened  securely  about  me.  I  have 
seen — owned  very  handsome  shawl  pins  since  then — 
some  double,  with  connecting  chains  of  silver  or  of 
gold,  and  cunningly  decorated  by  the  goldsmith's  skill, 
but  none  ever  gave  me  better  service  than  did  that 
darning  needle  with  its  head  of  wax,  made  beautiful 
in  my  eyes  by  the  kindly  thought  that  prompted  its 
creation.  I  was  really  quite  excited  at  the  prospect  of 
seeing  her  at  home.  She  was  an  acquired  taste.  I  had 
found  her  bitter  at  first,  but  now  there  was  a  faint  hint 
of  sweetness  rising  above  the  bitterness,  and  I  liked  it. 
I  hurried  to  keep  my  appointment,  and  as  I  approached 
I  was  struck  by  the  resemblance  the  house  bore  to  the 
woman  who  lived  in  it.  Both  were  so  old,  so  gaunt, 


102  A  Silent  Singer 

so  lonely,  and,  above  all,  so  frail.  Surely,  I  thought, 
that  trembling,  old,  frame  shell  of  a  house  cannot  be  safe 
in  any  great  off-lake  gale.  And  when  I  first  entered  it 
and  mounted  its  sagging,  old  stairs  I  was  really  fright 
ened  when  it  jarred  at  every  quick  movement  and  shook 
in  each  blast  of  wind. 

Mrs.  Worden  was  out  when  I  arrived,  and  so  I 
entered  gladly  the  front  room  she  had  indicated,  for, 
silly  as  it  sounds,  I  must  admit  I  am,  and  always  have 
been,  afraid  of  an  empty  house.  I  went  in  and  closed 
the  door. 

Now,  the  French  say,  when  colors  do  not  agree  '  that 
they  swear  at  each  other,'  but  never,  surely,  did  inani 
mate  things  swell  to  such  a  storm  of  profanity  as  did 
the  furnishings  of  this  room.  The  floor  was  bare,  the 
boards  were  narrow  and  warped  and  hungry-looking. 
Guiltless  of  stain  or  paint,  they  had  been  scrubbed  to 
a  creamy  whiteness,  which  somehow  gave  the  whole 
floor  a  peculiarly  frigid,  unfriendly  look.  It  had  a 
Pharisaical  air,  as  though  it  were  thanking  its  maker 
"  that  it  was  not  as  other  floors."  Then,  exactly  oppo 
site  the  door,  there  hung  upon  the  glaring,  whitewashed 
wall,  in  a  magnificent  frame,  a  life-sized,  full-length 
portrait  in  oil,  of  a  charming  girl  of  about  ten  years. 
The  "  swearing  "  here  was  almost  audible.  The  win 
dows,  ill-fitting  and  rattling  in  their  cases, ^looked  out 
directly  upon  the  lake.  The  bedstead  had  been  a 
grand  affair  in  its  long-passed  day,  but  now,  stripped  of 
all  its  luxurious  hangings,  it  stretched  its  thin,  old  posts 


Old  Myra's   Waiting  103 

up,  only  to  meet  the  skeleton  of  its  former  canopy,  while 
the  silken  spread  of  patch-work,  of  a  brain-destroying 
intricacy  of  pattern,  was  worn  clear  through  in  places, 
so  that  the  cotton,  wadding  showed  plainly.  As  I  turned 
slowly  around,  I  found  another  great  portrait.  This 
time  it  was  a  boy  who  smiled  happily  at  me  from  the 
canvas ;  such  a  handsome,  manly  little  chap,  for  all  his 
absurd  dress.  One  only  smiled  with  him,  not  at  him. 
I  was  very  much  impressed,  for  I  had  only  been  in  two 
houses  where  there  were  family  portraits,  and  I  knew 
they  meant  a  great  expenditure.  And  then,  ignorant 
as  I  was  of  such  matters,  I  felt  sure  these  portraits 
were  the  work  of  some  great  artist,  and  I  was  right, 
for  later  on  I  learned  they  had  been  painted  by  the 
most  famous  artist  of  his  time. 

Two  small  tables,  a  bureau,  a  few  chairs,  all  of  the 
commonest,  and  a  small  corner  cupboard,  completed 
the  furniture  of  this  odd  room.  Oh,  yes ;  I  must  not 
omit  the  screen,  then  a  very  unusual  object,  a  tall,  nar 
row,  three-panelled  screen,  which  played  an  important 
part  in  its  owner's  daily  life.  And  the  fire  !  Thank 
Heaven,  I  thought,  for  one  thing,  that  did  not  look 
cold.  I  think  there  was  about  one  scant  quart  of  fire, 
and,  as  I  threw  off  my  shawl,  1  started  to  put  on  some 
coal,  when  suddenly  I  remembered  that  injunction, 
4  You  girl !  don't  touch  the  fire ! '  and  I  stayed  my  hand, 
but  when  I  looked  into  the  box  and  saw  there  just  four 
pieces  of  coal,  and  so  suspiciously  exact  in  size  one  to 
the  other,  and  leaning  at  the  end  of  the  box  a  hammer, 


104  A  Silent  Singer 

my  heart  melted  with  pity;  I  began  to  understand. 
With  a  sigh  I  left  the  fire,  precious  but  inadequate,  and 
turned  to  study  the  painted  pair.  The  boy,  swarthy, 
smiling,  happy,  won  your  love  at  once ;  but  the  girl's 
blonde,  young  arrogance  slightly  repelled.  The  por 
trait,  considered  as  a  picture,  was  quite  lovely.  The 
dainty  figure,  in  the  soft,  yellowish-pink  gown,  stood 
out  well  from  the  olives  and  dull  greens  of  the  brocaded 
curtain  behind  her.  On  the  table  lay  her  great  hat, 
while  just  slipping  from  her  shoulder  was  the  black 
velvet  pelisse  which,  by  contrast,  brought  out  so  beauti 
fully  the  milky  whiteness  of  her  childish  neck.  The 
features,  the  lift  of  the  head,  the  thin,  slightly  shrewish, 
delicate  lips  were  all  wonderfully  like  Mrs.  Worden. 
But  the  color  scheme  was  wrong.  This  handsome,  over 
bearing  child  was  blonde  as  she  could  be,  while  the  boy, 
with  but  one  feature  of  her  face,  her  piercing  eyes,  was 
surely  darker  than  she  had  ever  been.  So  while  I  stood 
before  the  girl  and  thought  how  clever  had  been  the 
artist,  who  had  painted  the  boy  with  his  hand  upon  his 
dog's  head — while  in  the  girl's  hand  he  had  placed  a 
broken  necklace — in  these  bits  of  detail,  I  thought  he 
has  given  his  idea  of  their  character,  and  just  then  I 
heard  Mrs.  Worden  approaching. 

Like  many  people  who  live  much  alone,  she  had  the 
habit  of  talking  to  herself — she  was  talking  then.  I 
heard  her  say,  "  That's  fifteen  years  ago,  you  fool !  yes, 
all  of  that.  Now,  what  the  devil  did  I  do  it  for  ?  " 

I  felt  quite  certain  she  was  referring  to  the  invita- 


Old  Myra's  Waiting  105 

tion  she  had  given  to  me,  and  I  shook  with  laughter. 
When  she  opened  the  door,  her  eyes  were  snapping 
viciously  and  her  brows  were  brought  together  in  an 
inky  frown ;  only  her  hair  was  white,  her  brows  were 
black  as  they  had  ever  been,  but  when  she  saw  me 
standing,  my  hands  behind  me,  evidently  studying  the 
portrait,  the  frown  unknit  itself,  her  eyes  softened,  and 
when  I  asked :  "  Who  are  they,  the  handsome  girl  and 
the  laughing,  little  man  ? "  she  answered  proudly : 
"  They  are  my  treasures,  my  man-child  Philip,  and  my 
Edith,  gift-of-God  ;  because  of  whom  I  have  not  cursed 
Him  long  ago  and  died." 

At  the  words,  "  my  treasures,"  I  suddenly  recalled 
her  speech  at  the  lake,  and  instinctively  my  eyes  turned 
towards  it.  She  caught  the  look,  and,  going  to  the 
window,  she  went  on :  "  My  treasures,  precious  beyond 
rubies,  they  lie  out  there  now  ;  I  watch  them  and  wait 
for  the  sign." 

Then,  pointing  with  her  long,  bony  finger,  she  said : 
"  You  see  that  dark  line  out  there  on  the  water ;  no,  no, 
the  darker,  purplish  one?  That's  where  they  lie. 
Yes,  yes,  my  prettys,  I  know,  I  know !  but  it's  weary 
waiting,  dearies ;  weary,  weary  !  " 

Her  voice  died  away  so  drearily  that  I  felt  the  tears  ris 
ing  in  my  eyes.  A  movement  of  mine  made  her  turn  to 
me.  She  put  her  hand  up  and  passed  it  across  her 
brow  and  eyes  once  or  twice,  and  then,  quite  naturally, 
she  went  on :  "I  was  wondering,  when  I  came  in,  what 
I  asked  you  here  for." 


106  A  Silent  Singer 

I  interrupted  to  say  :  "  I  think  it  was  to  give  me 
pleasure."  "  No,"  she  answered,  "  it  wasn't  that.  I 
know  now.  I  thought  I'd  like  to  hear  some  one  talk 
again." 

I  felt  a  bit  flattered  at  that,  but  she  finished  with : 
"  I  haven't  heard  any  one  talk  at  home  since  my  parrot 
died." 

Down  sat  my  vanity,  flat.  The  old  lady  had  taken 
off  her  bonnet,  and,  as  she  motioned  me  to  a  chair,  she 
said,  musingly :  "I  never  can  quite  remember  whether 
I  learned  to  swear  from  the  parrot,  or  the  parrot 
learned  from  me." 

She  heaved  a  sigh  and  proceeded  to  prepare  the  tray 
for  our  coffee.  As  she  moved  about  she  continued  her 
remarks:  "Yes,  we  did  a  fairish  bit  of  swearing 
between  us,  Poll  and  I ;  her  name,  by  the  way,  was 
not  Poll,  but  Sally,  and,  of  course,  I  suppose  some 
one  must  have  taught  her  to  do  it,  but  it  was  delicious 
to  hear  the  '  bloomin '  '  cussing  she  would  give  to  any 
one  who  called  her  Sarah.  Yes,  all  things  considered, 
there  was  in  the  past  considerable  profanity  in  this 
room." 

And  I,  glancing  at  the  splendid  frame  against  the 
whitewashed  wall,  recklessly  made  answer :  "And  it  is 
not  absolutely  absent  at  this  moment." 

Her  bright,  old  eye  glanced  from  wall  to  frame,  then 
back  to  me,  her  quick  comprehension  making  my  unfin 
ished  thought  her  finished  one  in  an  instant.  She 
wagged  her  head  and  said :  "  That's  not  bad,  you  girl," 


Old  Myra's  Waiting  107 

then,  with  somewhat  unnerving  loudness,  she  went  on : 
4 -She's  young  and  green,  oh!  but  upon  my  soul,  she's 
not  a  fool."  Then  addressing  me  again  :  "  So  you 
know  some  French  sayings,  do  you  ?  Not  many  though, 
I  think  ;  but  look,  you,  young  ears  are  sharp,  and  you 
should  have  been  here  before  the  hangings  of  my  bed 
fell  to  bits.  They  were  of  brocatelle  and  lined  with 
silk,  and  they  cursed  that  whitewashed  wall  so  venom 
ously,  had  you  been  here  in  the  bed,  you'd  not  have 
slept  one  wink,  unless  your  soul's  already  gray  instead 
of  white,"  and  she  laughed  that  odd,  stinging  laughter 
that  was  so  like  the  crackling  of  thin  ice  upon  a  wintry 
day. 

While  she  had  talked  and  laughed  and  nodded,  she 
had  prepared  her  coffee,  and  we  seated  ourselves  at 
either  side  of  the  little  table,  she  taking  care  to  sit  facing 
the  tossing  lake. 

Oh,  that  tray!  It  really  seemed  as  though  the 
things  thereon  must  come  to  blows,  so  fiercely  did  they 
contradict  each  other.  The  coffee  pot  of  make  and 
material  precisely  like  those  good  "  Bridgets  "  purchase 
for  the  use  of  honest  "  Patricks."  The  knives  and 
forks — they  appeared  a  bit  later — were  of  that  brand 
which  always  makes  you  wish  that  you  were  dead,  they 
make  of  life  a  thing  so  hideous.  While  cheek  by  jowl 
with  these  rough  things  stood  a  few  pieces  of  old  porce 
lain,  deserving,  each  one  of  them,  a  satin-lined  box  to 
rest  in.  And  to  keep  them  in  countenance,  there  were 
four  spoons  of  silver,  paper-thin,  initials  and  dates  quite 


108  A  Silent  Singer 

worn  away,  and  all  a  trifle  bent  and  dented  in  spite  of 
the  owner's  care  of  them  ;  while  the  linen,  I  could  have 
cried  over  that  eye-destroying  mass  of  delicate  darn 
ing.  Truly,  there  were  places  in  my  napkin  where  the 
darning  had  itself  been  darned  again.  But  the  coffee, 
like  the  fire,  which  had  been  increased  by  the  addition 
of  one  small  cube  of  coal,  was  inadequate  in  quantity, 
but  the  qaulity?  oh,  well,  it  was  perfection,  that's  all ; 
absolute  perfection. 

I  tasted  it  and  smiled,  and  sighed.  She  understood, 
and  snapped  her  old  eyes  at  me  approvingly,  and  she 
tasted  and  sighed,  and  then  she  slowly  said :  "  When 
ever  I  drink  good  coffee  I  always  rejoice  that  God 
created  it.  It  would  have  been  an  infernal  shame  had 
it  been  invented  by  some  fool  man  ! " 

I  laughed  aloud — I  always  did,  I'm  sorry  to  confess 
— whenever  she  swore,  she  did  it  in  such  an  impersonal 
way,  never,  never  in  anger,  never,  even  when  she  was 
busily  engaged  in  flaying  alive  some  victim  of  her  mem 
ory  and  her  tongue.  She  generally  swore  to  herself,  and 
nearly  always  when  in  a  reflective  mood.  When  I 
laughed,  she  gave  me  a  glance  and  asked  quickly : 
"  What  is  it,  eh  ?  Did  I  swear  ?  Well,  don't  you  do 
it,  that's  all.  But  Lord !  you  won't  have  to  live  fifteen 
or  twenty  years  alone  with  a  '  cussing '  parrot,  as  I 
did.  For  some  time  after  Sally  died  I  used  to  say 
'damnation.'  Oh,  I  don't  say  it  now;  don't  open  your 
eyes  any  wider,  you'll  meet  with  an  accident.  But,  you 
see,  for  nearly  twenty  years  that  bird  told  me  twice  a 


Old  Myra's  Waiting  109 

day  that  her  coffee  was  '  too  damnation  hot,'  and  after 
she  was  gone  I  had  to  say  it  now  and  then  to  break  the 
silence." 

As  she  talked  she  fidgeted  uneasily  with  her  spoon  and 
cup ;  at  last  she  broke  out  with :  "  My  dear,  I  asked 
you  just  to  have  coffee  with  me,  but  now — well,  to  tell 
you  the  truth — I  am  quite  faint.  I  breakfast  at  half -past 
six,  that  I  may  have  the  strong  morning  light  for  my 
work,  and  somehow  I  feel  a  bit  exhausted  to-day,  and — 
and  I'd  like  my  dinner  now,  if  you  can  pardon  an  old 
woman's  offence  against  all  conventionalities,  and  stay 
and  dine  with  me  !  " 

Could  I  have  known,  I  would  have  taken  the  coffee 
only  and  denied  my  hunger ;  but  I  knew  nothing,  and 
cheerfully  consented  to  dine  with  her.  I  wondered 
where  her  kitchen  was,  and,  supposing  she  would  be 
some  time  preparing  the  simplest  meal,  I  looked  about 
for  something  to  help  me  pass  away  the  time.  There 
was  no  paper,  and  but  one  book  in  the  room,  a  family 
bible  that  might  have  been  bound  in  a  pair  of  old 
boots — its  leather  was  so  browned  with  age,  so  worn,  so 
scruffed  it  looked.  I  went  over  to  take  it  up,  when 
my  hostess,  with  distinct  satisfaction  in  her  voice, 
announced,  "  Dinner  ! "  All  my  life  long  my  generally- 
absent  appetite  has  been  pursued  like  an  "  ignus 
fatuus  "  by  those  near  to  me,  but  this  time  my  appetite 
met  its  match  ;  old  Myra's  saw  mine  and  went  it  about 
four  better.  The  knives  and  forks  had  now  appeared, 
simply  as  a  mockery,  I  believe.  Lying  on  a  plate  were 


110  A  Silent  Singer 

four  biscuits,  or,  as  we  called  them  then,  crackers.  They 
belonged  to  that  branch  of  the  cracker  family  known  as 
"  soda  " — soda  crackers  ,  and  while  I  looked  on  in  stu 
pid  wonder,  she  carefully  opened  a  handsomely-cut, 
glass  box,  with  a  silver  lid,  which,  beyond  the  shadow  of 
a  doubt,  had  been  her  powder-box  in  days  gone  by,  and 
delicately  lifted  out  four  little,  thin  scraps  of  smoked 
beef — four  crackers  and  those  scraps  of  beef — no  more, 
no  less — and  we  fell  to  and  "dined  "  upon  them.  But 
when  I  saw  her  trying  not  to  eat  too  eagerly,  I  had  a 
lump  in  my  throat  bigger  than  our  whole  dinner.  No 
wonder  her  weight  was  less  than  a  pound  for  each  year 
of  her  weary  life.  I  wished  I  could  gather  her  up  in 
my  arms  and  kiss  the  fierceness  out  of  her  eyes  and 
promise  her  fire  enough  for  real  comfort,  and  coffee, 
and  food — real  food — that  would  not  make  the  promise 
of  nourishment  to  the  eye  to  break  it  to  the  stomach. 
My  thoughts  were  broken  by  "  You,  girl !  is  there  any 
thing  the  matter  with  your  dinner?  " 

"  Nothing  in  the  world,"  I  cried,  "  but  I  was  not 
very  hungry,  and,  in  fact,  I  do  want  to  get  back  to  my 
coffee." 

"  Well,"  she  answered,  "  I  must  say  you  eat  fairer 
than  ever  Sally  did,  for,  I  give  you  my  word,  for 
years  on  end  that  parrot  cheated  me  out  of  at  least 
half  a  cracker  every  day  of  her  life,  and  yet,  my  dear, 
when  she  died  she  was  as  thin  as  I  am." 

When  I  was  about  leaving  her,  she  said  to  me : 
"  You,  girl,  I  like  you  !  You  are  queer.  You  are  uneven, 


Old  Myra's  Waiting  111 

and  you  make  me  guess.  You  know  more  and  you  know 
less  than  most  girls  of  your  age,  and,  thank  God,  you 
don't  giggle!  You  may  come  again."  She  paused  and 
looked  at  me  with  a  deprecating  expression,  and  fin 
ished  almost  meekly  :  "  That  is,  if  you  care  to  share 
your  spare  time  with  me." 

I  told  her,  and  I  told  her  truly,  how  glad  1  should 
be  to  come.  How  glad  I  was  to  live  in  Lake  street  too, 
and  so  near  to  her,  and  then,  rather  shyly,  I  added :  "I 
think,  if  you  will  let  me,  I  will  tell  you  my  name,  Mrs. 
Worden — and  I  mentioned  it. 

She  was  looking  out  at  the  dreary  lake  again,  and, 
without  withdrawing  her  eyes,  she  made  answer: 
"H'm'm!  Clara, eh?  Cla — ra,  Claire — Clarice — that's  a 
fool  name,  Clarice?  but  Clara — that's  light,  illustrious, 
clear,  bright !  My  dear,  I'm  glad  you  are  named  Clara. 
It's  a  good  name.  I  hope  it  may  fit  you  as  well  as 
mine  has  fitted  me.  My  French  mother  meant  to  call 
me  Marie,  which  is,  you  know,  a  form  of  Mary — '  Star 
of  the  Sea,'  and  he  who  did  the  sprinkling  and  the 
crossing  and  the  rest  was  deaf,  and  he  named  me  Myra 
—'she  who  weeps.'  Good  God!  Good  God!  Have 
I  not  been  well  named?  '  She  who  weeps.'  The  tears 
are  all  gone  from  the  eyes,  now,  and  they  are  dry  enough, 
but  hot,  my  dearies — so  very  hot!  Internal,  cruel 
tears  that  ooze  slowly,  like  drops  of  thin,  old  blood, 
still  fall  from  my  heart,  my  dearies,  while  I  wait 
and  wait.  Aye,  it  was  before  the  altar,  and  with  the 
sign  of  the  sacred  cross,  and  the  touch  of  the  holy- 


112  A  Silent  Singer 

water  on  my  brow,  that  he  baptized  me  'Myra' — 'she 
who  weeps!' ' 

I  stole  out  of  the  room,  where  well-bred  hunger 
showed  its  teeth  so  plainly,  and  softly  closed  the  door, 
leaving  her  in  the  gathering  darkness,  a  ghost  talking 
to  other  ghosts,  from  whom  she  was  separated  by  the 
thinnest,  frailest  shell  of  mortality  I  ever  saw. 

And  so  we  went  our  ways,  and  did  the  work  that  fell 
to  us.  Some  nights  I  pranced  cheerily  about  the  stage 
in  country  dances,  and  made  announcements  anent  that 
carriage  that  always  seemed  to  be  waiting  for  some  one 
in  the  old  plays,  particularly  the  comedies.  "My  Lord, 
the  carriage  waits!"  It  is  a  famous  line,  a  short  one, 
I  know,  but  powerful  enough  to  produce  temporary 
paralysis  of  the  limbs  and  complete  dumbness,  for  the 
moment,  in  strong  and  lusty  youths  and  maidens. 
Well,  I  was  on  most  friendly  terms  with  that  line,  and 
some  nights  said  nothing  more,  while  on  other  nights  I 
went  on  and  played  really  first-class  parts,  that  being 
the  manner  in  which  we  used  to  work  our  way  upward 
from  the  very  bottom,  and  felt  no  shame  in  it  either; 
but  nous  avous  changes  tout  cela. 

While  I  was  thus  bobbing  up  and  down  upon  the 
restless  waters  of  my  profession,  my  strange  "  old  lady," 
who  had  grown  to  be  my  friend,  was  sitting  "  like  a  gray, 
old  Fate,  toiling,  toiling,  weaving  "  the  fairy-like  stitches 
that  made  whole  again  the  torn  or  injured  among  rare 
and  precious  laces.  Her  knowledge  of  them  was  won 
derful,  her  love  for  them  almost  tender.  She  would 


Old  Myra's  Waiting  113 

shake  her  head  and  croon  over  them,  when  they  were, 
in  her  words,  "badly  hurt."  The  day  she  came  nearest 
to  loving  me  was  the  day  I  said  I  thought  laces  were 
the  poetry  of  a  woman's  wardrobe.  "Aye,  aye,"  she 
answered,  "that's  a  good  word  and  well  said,  girl 
Clara.  It's  strange  that,  without  teaching  or  informa 
tion,  your  keen  instinct  guides  you  to  the  real  beauties 
of  life  as  surely  as  the  sense  of  smell  guides  a  young 
hound  on  the  trail.  There's  nothing  made  by  the  hand 
of  poverty  that  is  so  beautiful  as  lace  ;  so  delicate  yet 
so  strong.  Ah  1  girl  Clara,  some  day,  may  you  see  a 
bit  of  Venetian  *  point,'  '  round  point,'  but  if  you  do, 
you'll  smash  a  commandment,  mark  my  words !" 

Laces  were  sent  to  her  from  distant  cities,  and  the 
package  I  had  caught  up  from  under  the  horses'  feet 
came,  as  did  many  others,  from  the  then  greatest  mer 
chant  of  New  York.  She  had  received  much  work  from 
the  South,  but  the  war  deprived  her  of  that.  So  she 
went  on  cutting  her  expenses  down  to  meet  her  earn 
ings,  starving  quite  slowly  and  making  her  moan  to  no 
man. 

One  day  I  paid  a  long-promised,  much-dreaded  visit 
to  a  young  friend  of  mine.  We  had  made  our  first 
appearance  in  the  ballet  together,  the  same  night,  the 
same  play,  and  she  was  still  in  the  ballet.  She  was 
the  young  person  who  gave  me  the  decorated  fly-trap 
for  a  Christmas  gift.  Somehow  that  remarkable  selec 
tion  of  a  gift  always  seems  to  have  had  something  to  do 
with  her  remaining  so  many  years  the  chief  ornament 


114  A  Silent  Singer 

of  that  ballet.  I  had  gone  with  her  from  rehearsal  to 
her  boarding-house.  Now,  there  are  boarding-houses 
and  boarding-houses,  but  this  was  just  a  boarding-house. 
The  sadly  experienced  ones  will  understand  exactly 
what  I  mean.  The  happy,  inexperienced  ones  may  just 
skip  the  sentence. 

Rehearsal  had  been  long,  so  we  were  late  for  dinner 
and  we  seated  ourselves  at  the  long,  narrow,  untidy, 
unfriendly-looking  table,  with  heavy  forebodings.  Every 
thing  seemed  to  have  been  devoured  by  the  boarders 
before  us,  except  the  pickles.  They  alone  coldly  and 
sourly  faced  us.  But  when  the  slatternly  waitress 
came  in,  I  asked  myself  why,  oh,  why  had  I  come  at 
all  ?  A  slattern  with  a  cheerful  face  is  hard  to  bear,  but 
a  slattern  who  sulks  is  more  than  even  a  boarder  should 
be  asked  to  endure.  I  saw  my  friend,  whose  name  was 
Mary,  quail  as  this  fell  creature  looked  insolently  at 
her;  but  before  our  doom  was  sealed  the  landlady 
passed  through  the  rorom.  Now,  Mary  always  said  that 
had  she  been  alone  that  incident  would  have  passed 
for  nothing,  and  that  she  would  have  dined  on  pickles 
and  cold  water,  or  not  dined  at  all,  but  I  was  there,  and 
Mrs.  Bulkley  knew  of  me,  and  being  stricken  for  the 
moment  with  madness,  saw  in  me  a  possible  boarder, 
therefore  she  paused  and  greeted  me,  and  rather 
unnecessarily  explained  that  the  dinner  was  all  gone,  but 
added  that  she  reckoned  they  could  scrape  something 
together  for  us.  And  Mary  rather  ungratefully  whis 
pered,"  she  was  used  to  living  on  scrapings  now."  While 


Old  Myra's  Waiting  115 

we  waited,  the  sulky  slattern,  regardless  of  our  presence, 
proceeded  with  her  duties,  snatching  everything  from 
the  table,  except  the  shame-faced  cover  and  the  pickles. 

Presently  Mrs.  Bulkley  appeared,  and  our  dinner 
materialized  in  the  form  of  liver  and  bacon  and  warmed 
potatoes,  a  vulgar  dish,  but,  being  freshly  cooked,  a 
welcome  one  to  two  tired  and  hungry  girls.  Had  it 
not  been  for  the  table-cover  we  might  have  been  quite 
happy,  but  the  sins  of  the  boarders  against  it  had  been 
many,  and  as  they  had  not  yet  been  washed  away,  they 
were  not  pleasant  to  look  upon. 

Just  as  we  were  being  served,  Mary  remarked  that 
she  had  "  seen  that  awful,  old  Mrs.  Worden  giving  a 
gentleman  fits  in  the  street  that  morning,  and  that  two 
other  gentlemen  were  waiting  for  him,  and  they  had 
laughed  at  him,"  and  she  ended  by  asking  me  "  had  I 
ever  seen  her?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  I  answered,  "  I  saw  her  in  her  room  yes 
terday." 

"What?"  cried  Mrs.  Bulkley,  dropping  the  spoon 
noisily  from  her  hand.  "  What's  that  ?  You  saw  Mrs. 
Worden  in  her  room,  her  own  room  where  she  lives? 
Oh,  nonsense,  you  don't  mean  our  Mrs.  Worden  !  She 
hasn't  had  a  soul  inside  that  room  since  old  poll  Sal 
died." 

I  explained  that  my  Mrs.  Worden  was  "Myra," 
owner  of  Sally,  living  at  number  so-and-so  Lake  street, 
mender  of  laces,  etc.,  and  then  Mrs.  Bulkley  dropped 
herself,  a  friendly  chair  catching  her  ;  then  she  said : 


116  A  Silent  Singer 

"Well,  I'm  dummed!"  Then  she  took  off  her  spec 
tacles  and  wiped  them  on  a  corner  of  the  table-cover, 
which  made  them  worse,  as  I  knew  it  would,  and  she 
took  them  off  again  and  wiped  them  on  a  grimy  hand 
kerchief,  and  put  them  on,  and  looked  hard  at  me  and 
said :  "  She  had  you  in  her  room,  and  you  a  theatre- 
girl  ?  Well,  then,  she's  breaking  up  at  last.  Well  I 
Well !  " 

She  leaned  her  head  upon  her  ugly,  old  hand,  and 
I  asked: 

"  Do  you  know  her  personally  ?  " 

"  Do  I  know  her  !  "  she  snapped  out  at  me.  "  Don't 
she  come  here  every  once  in  a  while  ?  and  sometimes 
she  takes  tea  with  me !  " 

"  Yes,"  faintly  murmured  Mary,  "  and  when  she 
comes,  a  clean  cloth  goes  on  the  table,  and  every  boarder 
in  the  house  who  has  '  a  past,'  keeps  in  his  or  her  own 
room." 

I  smiled  comprehendingly,  while  Mrs.  Bulkley  went 
on :  "  Do  I  know  her  ?  good  Lord !  haven't  I  known 
her  since  I  was  a  green  girl  in  my  early  'teens?" 

I  was  startled.  Looking  at  her  foxy,  false  front,  her 
steel-bowed  spectacles,  her  leathery  skin,  and  the  small 
framed  platter  she  wore  on  her  chest  as  a  breast-pin, 
it  was  so  hard  to  believe  she  had  ever  had  any  '  'teens ' 
at  all  1 

"  Yes,"  she  went  on,  "  I  know  her,  aft  my  mother 
before  me  did.  She  worked  for  Mrs.  Worden  for 
more  than  eighteen  years,  and  now  she's  breaking  up. 


Old  Myra's  Waiting  117 

Here,  Hannah,  make  me  some  tea !  You,  oh,  well,  yes 
— you  may  make  enough  for  us  three,  and  bring  it  here. 
I  feel  all  tuckered  out." 

And  the  old  body  did  look  worried  and  anxious.  I 
was  surprised,  and  I  was  grateful  for  her  interest  in 
Mrs.  Worden,  for  whom  I  now  Lad  a  real  affection  as 
well  as  a  great  pity. 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Bulkley  ! "  1  cried,  "  don't  be  uneasy ;  Mrs. 
Worden  seems  quite  as  well  as  usual.  She  works  as 
hard  as  ever,  too,  and  she  is  very  kind  to  me." 

"  There  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Bulkley,  "  that  settles  it ! 
Myra  Worden  kind  to  anyone  in  her  eighty-third  year  ? 
She' s  breaking;  she'll  get  the  sign  she's  been  waiting  for 
so  long  pretty  soon,  I  reckon,  poor  thing  !  " 

I  simply  could  not  help  putting  the  question  :  "  Do 
you  know,  Mrs.  Bulkley,  why  Mrs.  Worden  hates 
theatres  so  bitterly  ?  " 

"  Do  I  know,  my  Suz  ! — Oh,  here's  the  tea,  and  glad 
I  am  for  it !  " 

The  tea  was  good,  and  I  saw  by  the  gratified  aston 
ishment  of  Mary's  face  that  it  was  a  treat.  When  the 
"  Busy  B "  (as  Mrs.  Bulkley  was  generally  called 
behind  her  back)  had  had  her  first  cup,  as  a  pick-me-up 
— a  sort  of  green-tea  cocktail — she  felt  better.  She 
loosened  her  specs  and  let  them  slide  well  down  her 
nose,  so  she  could  look  at  me  over  their  tops ;  she 
planted  her  black  alpaca  elbow  on  the  dingy  table, 
and  unlimbered,  ready  for  conversation,  while,  for  the 
first  time  in  my  life,  I  recognized  these  signs  in  a  land- 


118  A  Silent  Singer 

lady  without  instantly  taking  flight.  "  Why,"  she 
began,  "  it  was  like  this  :  Right  from  the  first  every  one 
said  she'd  throwed  herself  away  when  she  took  up  with 
that  great,  big,  pi nk-and- white  chuckle-head,  Phil  Wor 
den.  But  she  was  just  plumb  crazy  in  love  with  him. 
I  suppose  he  must  have  cared  a  little  for  her  at  first, 
but  mother  always  said  he  just  married  her  out  of  van 
ity — like  gals  do  sometimes — she  being  the  biggest  catch 
in  town.  Good  looks,  and  money  and  family  the  hull 
thing !  Well,  anyway,  he  was  a  f oolin'  her,  or  thought 
he  was,  before  they  was  married  a  year.  She  knew  of 
it  in  no  time.  Mother  thought  there'd  be  an  awful  rum 
pus,  but  Mrs.  Worden  shut  herself  up  all  afternoon 
alone,  and  walked  and  walked,  but  when  supper-time 
come  she  just  met  him  as  kind  and  as  sweet !  Oh ! 
Myra  used  to  bs  sweet  enough  in  them  days,  and  she 
just  talked  and  laughed,  and  he  looked  like  a  great 
school-boy  expecting  a  good  trouncing.  Well,  that  bio  wed 
over,  but  Myra  Worden  was  always  on  the  watch,  I 
reckon,  after  that.  Mother  used  to  say  he  was,  some 
how,  afraid  of  her.  She  loved  books — good  Lord !  the 
books  she  had  ;  lots  of  'em  writ  in  French,  too  ;  and 
she  first  off  tried  to  talk  of  'em  to  him,  same  as  to  visi 
tors,  and  he  didn't  know  a  thing  about  'em.  Then  she 
tried  to  read  them  to  him,  and  mother  said  she 
didn't  know  which  one  she  felt  the  sorriest  for,  him 
or  her  ;  him  trying  to  keep  awake,  or  her  trying  to  hide 
her  disappointment.  Well,  by-and-by,  she  gives  it  all 
up,  and,  if  you'll  believe  me,  that  educated,  fine-minded 


Old  Myra's  Waiting  119 

woman  just  took  to  readin'  out  loud  to  him  a  nasty, 
low-down  paper — I  can't  just  call  its  name  now,  but  all 
about  cock-fights — oh,  yes !  they  had  dog-fights  and  cock 
fights  in  my  time,  my  dear — and  ring  fights,  and 
horse-races,  and  he'd  just  drink  it  all  in,  every 
word.  She  was  fond  of  music,  and  he  couldn't  tell  one 
tune  from  another,  he  said ;  but  that  was  just  an  excuse, 
because  he  hated  to  have  to  sit  and  listen  to  decent 
music.  Common  fiddling  suited  him  well  enough.  He 
was  almost  stupid  in  behavior  or  sulky-like  in  company 
— proper  company  ;  but  if,  by  chance,  he  was  left  home 
at  night  and  his  wife  was  out,  he'd  carry  on  with  the 
servants,  and  sing  songs,  and  play  tricks  with  the  cards, 
and  imitate  things — pigs  gruntin'  and  corks  poppin', 
and  that  like,  until  you'd  laugh  to  split.  In  that  sort 
of  way,  mother  used  to  say,  she  thought  he  felt  afraid 
of  his  wife's  finding  out  his  real  disposition,  and 
she — why,  she  just  followed  him  about  with 
them  black  eyes  of  hers,  and  fair  worshipped  him. 
She  was  nigh  tickled  to  death  when  her  girl  baby 
came  into  the  world;  yellow-headed  like  him.  She  was 
only  like  him  in  color,  however,  for  of  all  the  domin- 
eerin'  little  hectoring  brats  I  ever  saw !  Well,  as  I 
was  saying,  Mrs.  Worden  was  the  law  of  this  town 
then,  and  it  was  card  parties  and  coach  parties  and 
sleigh  parties  and  lake  moonlight  parties,  accordin'  to 
the  time  a  year,  and  dinners  and  suppers  and  '  routs  ' 
— that's  what  they  called  'em  then,  I  remember — and 
people  used  to  come  from  other  places  and  they'd  stay 


120  A  Silent  Singer 

a  week  at  a  time,  and  them  weeks  was  Phil  Wor- 
den's  picnics,  his  two-forty-on-a-plank  days,  I  tell  you. 
Now,  I  never  see  nobody  so  dead  crazy  about  theatres 
as  Miss  Worden  was.  Whenever  a  company  came 
here  she  had  the  first  box,  and  every  night  of  her  life, 
unless  she  gave  a  '  rout,'  she  was  in  that  old  theatre. 
Yes,  I  know  it,  an  alley  now,  and  only  a  few  low 
variety  shows  go  there,  and  no  women  ever  enters  its 
doors,  but  then  it  was,  my  Suz  !  it  just  was  a  fine 
theatre.  Well,  Phil  was  fond  of  the  show,  too,  and  she 
was  awful  proud  of  that,  and  it  was  '  my  Philip  is  so 
fond  of  the  play,'  and  '  Mr.  Worden  will  be  at  the 
theatre  whether  or  no — '  Poor  soul !  it  was  so 
seldom  they  liked  the  same  things,  but  Lord !  even 
then  she  was  deceivin'  herself.  He  didn't  care  for  no 
play ;  he  just  went  for  them  dances  they  used  to  have 
between  the  acts,  and  the  slack  wire  performers  and 
that  like  ;  but  he  knew  every  man  and  woman  behind 
the  scenes,  and  knocked  about  with  them  in  the 
daytime,  and  I  don't  mean  no  slurs  against  you  two 
girls  now,  but  in  them  days  actors  was  a  rather  com 
mon  lot.  The  men  nearly  all  drank  too  much,  and, 
what's  worse,  some  of  the  women  did,  too ;  and  well,  one 
crowd  came  here  for  a  long  stay,  and  Phil  Worden  was 
just  cock  of  the  walk  with  them,  and  before  long  there 
was  talk  about  one  special  female.  She  wasn't  even  a 
leadin'  actor  among  'em,  just  a  brazen  hussy  who  put 
paint  an  inch  thick  on  her  cheeks  and  daubed  her  mouth 
with  a  dye  thing  they  called  '  vinegar  rouge,'  because  it 


Old  Myra's  Waiting  121 

wouldn't  come  off  easy,  and  she  was  poorer  than  Job, 
and  all  at  once  she  had  beaver  bonnets  and  velvet 
pelisses  and  feathers  and  long  gloves  and  a  muff  big 
enough  for  a  base  drum.  And  because  the  woman  was 
drunk  oftener  and  oftener,  and  in  her  cups  was  a  noisy 
and  quarrelsome  jade  who  would  fight  her  best  friend, 
and  talked  everything  right  out,  all  Cleveland  began 
to  wink  and  nod  and  say  Phil  Worden.  Well,  of  course, 
Myra  must  have  suspected,  but  never  one  cross  word 
did  she  give  him,  nor  show  him  the  frown  mother  said 
she  had  on  pretty  often  them  days  when  he  was  away. 
But,  one  day,  in  he  comes,  near  supper  time — even 
Mrs.  Worden  took  her  dinner  at  two  o'clock  them 
times,  and  people  said  it  was  all  airs  to  have  dinner  so 
sinful  late.  Well,  in  he  comes,  all  bunged  up,  a  sight 
to  see  !  His  eye  was  all  swelled  up,  and  there  was  blood 
smears  on  his  face,  and  his  lip  was  hurt.  Mother  hap 
pened  to  be  right  there  when  he  came  in,  and  she 
looked  first  thing  at  Mrs.  Worden,  and  she  said  her 
eyes  flashed  fire.  She  stood  right  in  her  tracks,  look 
ing  in  her  husband's  face,  and  her  hands  were  shut 
tight,  and  at  last  she  said,  and  her  voice  cut  like  a 
knife  :  *  How  did  you  gel  your  hurt,  Mr.  Worden  ? ' 
and  he  looked  away  across  the  room  and  mumbled 
something  about  *  sky-larking  with  a  fellow  who  was 
drunk  and  hit  harder  than  he  knew,'  and  she,  as  white 
as  death  and  as  cold  as  ice,  said:  'You  lie,  you 
coward  !  You  lie !  Not  even  a  drunken  man  fights 
with  his  nails !  A  woman  did  that  work  for  you — ' 


122  A  Silent  Singer 

and  she  threw  open  the  door  and  pointed  for  him  to  go, 
but  in  came  the  two  children  in  their  gowns,  with  the 
nurse  behind,  to  tell  them  both  good  night.  Her 
arm  fell  like  a  log,  and  she  made  a  spring  and  caught 
him  by  the  shoulder  and  turned  him  so  the  young  ones 
couldn't  see  his  face,  and  pushed  him  towards  her 
dressin'-room  and  said  all  in  one  moment,  '  poor  daddy ! 
has  got  hurted,  so  mammy  must  tell  you  good  night 
alone  this  time,'  and  when  she  kissed  them  the  boy 
said,  'Sail  'ou  tiss  him  hurt,  mammy?'  and  she  says: 
4 God  kno7/s!  God  knows!'  and  mother  said  she  got 
away  with  the  dresses  she  was  carryin'  and  only  knows 
that  Myra  nursed  him  faithfully  till  he  was  able  to  face 
the  world  again,  and  for  her  pay,  one  week  later  he  left 
her,  to  follow  the  third-rate  actress,  who  beat  him  in 
her  drunken  frenzies — like  the  dog  he  was.  He  left  a 
letter  for  her.  My  mother  stood,  shaking  like  a  leaf 
with  fright,  but  Mrs.  Worden  stood  like  a  rock  and 
read  it  all  out  loud  :  *  How  he  was  not  her  equal,  how 
she  had  been  too  generous  and  too  kind,'  and  then 
mother  said  he  quite  worked  up  there,  and  blamed  her 
hard  for  not  flying  out  at  him  when  he  done  wrong. 
He  said  he  could  have  stood  it  better  if  she  had  abused 
him,  but  she  held  her  tongue  or  only  spoke  gently  to 
him,  and  at  the  very  end  that's  what  he  said, '  You  should 
have  lashed  me,  I  could  have  understood  that,  but  your 
tongue  was  not  sharp  enough,'  and  then  she  stopped,  my 
mother  said,  and  then  she  read  that  line  again,  'your 
tongue  was  not  sharp  enough,'  and  then,  says  she,  with 


Old  Myra's  Waiting  123 

blazing  eyes  and  white  lips,  '  By  God !  no  other  man 
shall  make  that  complaint  of  me !  I'll  sharpen  my 
tongue  like  a  serpent's,  and  adder's  poison  shall  lurk 
under  my  lips!'  and  then  suddenly  she  began  to  laugh 
and  laughed  and  laughed,  and  while  we  all  went  a  run 
ning  for  doctors,  she  laughed  her  way  into  the  fever  that 
came  nigh  to  killin'  her." 

The  tears  were  on  my  cheeks,  and  my  tea  was  stone 
cold,  when  Mrs.  Bulkley  paused  to  refill  her  exhausted 
lungs  and  swallow  another  bracer.  Mary  had,  mean 
time,  been  steadily  eating,  grinding  with  the  regularity 
of  a  machine,  swallowing  with  the  satisfaction  of  a 
gourmet.  She  had  devoured  her  own  share  of  the  meal 
and  was  now  making  predatory  attacks  upon  certain 
portions  belonging  by  rights  to  me,  and  I,  believing 
that  the  "Busy  B"  was  only  getting  her  second  wind 
and  would  start  again  directly,  told  her  in  a  whisper  to 
go  ahead  and  eat  it  all,  an  arrangement  satisfactory  to 
us  both,  since  I  preferred  Mrs.  Worden's  story  to  eat 
ing,  and  Mary  preferred  eating  to  any  story  of  any 
woman  alive  or  dead.  Mrs.  Bulkley  was  about  to 
resume  her  narrative,  when  she  paused  to  shout  an  order 
to  the  cook  in  the  kitchen  "not  to  use  none  of  that 
good  butter  in  no  cooking  out  there,"  and  I  actually 
felt  my  flesh  creep.  It  was  the  double  shock  that  told 
upon  the  nerves.  There  was  first  that  awful  attack 
upon  poor  Lindley  Murray,  pounding  him  with  nega 
tives,  then  there  were  the  rending  possibilities  connected 
with  the  butter  that  would  be  used  in  the  cooking  out 


124  A  Silent  Singer 

there.  And  I  was  glad  that  I  was  not  Mary.  Mary, 
hearing  that  order,  had  simply  let  her  eyebrows 
slide  up  her  forehead  a  bit  and  then  slide  down  again, 
while  she  went  on  eating.  Mrs.  Bulkley  suddenly 
remarked :  "I  see  you're  crying ;  well,  well,  I  used  to 
cry  about  Myra  Worden  myself,  sometimes.  But  when 
you  get  old  your  tears  come  harder,  like  everything 
else,  pretty  nigh.  I  don't  know's  I  exactly  sense  why 
you  should  cry  for  her  losin'  that  great  hulk  of  a 
fellow,  though." 

"Oh!"  I  cried,  "her  pride,  think  of  that !  To  have 
been  abandoned  for  some  great  woman,  some  rare 
beauty,  would  have  been  bad  enough,  but  to  have  been 
cast  aside  for  a  gross  and  common  thing  that  cursed 
and  tore  him  like  a  beast,  and  all  in  the  very  face  of 
the  public  !  How  could  she  bear  it  all,  poor  thing?" 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Bulkley,  "she  done  it  somehow. 
But  I  must  tell  you  a  queer  sort  of  thing  about  when 
she  was  sick — yet  it  jest  shows  you  what  dummed  fools 
women  be.  Mrs.  Worden  had  the  most  amazin'  head 
of  hair  I  ever  seen  in  my  born  days,  as  black  as  jet  and 
hangin'  to  a  length  I  darsen't  name,  for  fear  you'd 
think  it  lies,  and  thick  !  good  mercy !  Well,  she  was 
in  for  a  long  sickness,  the  doctor  said,  and  no  nurse 
«ould  do  anything  with  that  mop  of  hern ;  and  so  they 
tps  and  cuts  it  off,  and  mother  cryin'  like  a  baby  when 
they  done  it.  But  when  she  found  out  herself  what 
they  had  done  to  her — good  Lord!  she  give  a  screech, 
and  wrung  her  hands  and  sobbed :  '  It  was  the  only 


Old  Myra's  Waiting  125 

thing  that  Philip  ever  loved  about  me.  He  called  it 
his  great,  black  mantle,  and  once  he  wound  it  round 
and  round  and  round  his  strong,  white  throat,  and  now 
its  gone ;  thanks  to  these  meddlin'  fools,  who  don't  see 
that  I  can't  die!'  and  she  jest  cursed  every  man  and 
woman  in  the  house,  and  raved  over  that  hair  of  hern 
every  hour  when  she  was  out  of  her  head — when  she 
was  right-minded  she  never  let  on  she  noticed  about  it. 
Well,  at  last  she  got  well,  and  straight  she  put  on  the 
widow's  weeds  that  she's  worn  for  five  and  fifty  years. 
Poor  soul!  she  held  her  head  so  high  and  looked  so 
hard  right  into  folks's  eyes,  they  darsen't  ask  the  ques 
tions  nor  make  the  remarks  they'd  like  to.  And  she 
used  to  spend  an  awful  lot  of  time  and  money  on  the 
poor — and  she  jest  guarded  them  children  as  though 
they  was  chuck  full  of  dimonds.  But  'twas  then  she 
began  to  use  the  sharp  edge  of  her  tongue.  She  didn't 
talk  about  folks,  she  never  was  one  for  slander,  but  the 
things  she'd  say  to  'em  was  jest  awful,  and  the  worst  of 
it  all  was,  that  she  always  told  the  truth.  If  she'd  jest 
been  abusive  and  have  made  up  things  outen  whole 
cloth,  nobody  would  'a  cared  much;  but  what  was  it, 
now,  that  big  lawyer  said  about  her  once  ?  Let's  see, 
she  had  been  giving  him  a  hidin'  right  before  folks,  and 
when  she  was  done,  he  says,  *  The  woman  who  is  armed 
with  sarcasm  and  truth  is  a  woman  whose  tongue  is 
sharp  on  both  edges.'  Yes,  them's  the  words. 

"  But  trouble  jest  follow'd  right  along  after,  yes,  and 
pretty  close  after.     '  Mrs.  Myra  Worden,'  that's  what 


126  A  Silent  Singer 

her  cards  said  then;  they  used  to  say  Mrs.  Philip 
Worden — but  when  the  black  went  on  the  '  Philip ' 
came  off.  Mother  said  that  she  never  heard  her  speak 
that  name  but  jest  once,  after  the  time  she  stood  laughin' 
like  mad  over  his  last  letter.  Some  one  told  Mrs. 
Worden  that  some  one  else  had  said  that  4  she  had  a 
tongue  like  a  serpent's,'  and  mother  says  her  eyes  give 
a  flash  and  she  throw' d  up  her  head  and  she  said  almost 
wild-like:  'I  swore  me  an  oath  and  I'm  keepin'  it. 
You  should  have  waited ;  my  nails  are  long  now,  and 
sharp ;  already  I  have  a  serpent's  tongue.  I  might  yet 
learn  to  cuff,  and  curse  and  tear  you  with  the  rest ! 
Ah!  you  should  have  waited,  Philip!'  MySuz!  then 
came  the  trouble.  Didn't  the  biggest  man,  most,  we 
had  in  town  up  and  blow  out  his  miserable,  dishonest, 
old  brains,  because  he  had  first  lost  his  own  money,  and 
then  had  thrown  away  a  hull  lot  of  Myra  Worden' s 
after  it — expectiii'  to  get  both  back,  he  said.  It  was 
an  awful  loss.  She  didn't  say  anythin',  hardty,  but  she 
shook  her  head  a  bit,  while  she  watched  the  young  ones 
playing ;  she  only  cared  for  their  sakes.  Some  one  said 
to  her,  '  Such  a  disgrace,  I  do  wonder  what  his  family 
will  do?'  and  she  says  so  quiet-like:  'Get  a  much 
larger  monument  than  is  usual,  and  see  that  it's  of 
whitest  Carrara,  I  suppose.  That's  what's  generally 
done  in  such  cases.' 

"Well,  she  give  up  livin'  in  that  house,  and  give  up 
all  the  carriages  but  jest  a  family  affair  that  the  chil 
dren  could  be  sent  about  in,  and  came  down  to  Lake 


Old  Myra's  Waiting  127 

Street.  It  was  a  pretty  house,  but  Lord !  not  like  her 
a  bit.  And  if  you'll  believe  me,  that  girl,  that  Edith 
of  hern,  cut  up  more  monkey-shines  and  was  madder 
than  a  hornet  about  it.  Little  Phil  thought  it  was  fine ; 
fact  was,  the  little  devil  was  in  the  lake  about  half  his 
time,  but  nobody  liked  to  tell,  and  everybody  knew  the 
dog  would  take  care  of  him  anyhow.  They  got  along 
all  right  for  a  while,  she  living  for  the  work  she  could 
do  for  the  poor  and  for  the  love  of  them  children,  and 
they  for  lessons  and  fun.  My  Suz!  she  had  'em  so 
they  could  jabber  French  all  the  time  they  was  dressin' 
and  until  lunch,  and  then  at  that  meal  that  Dutch 
woman  she  had,  great  flat-faced,  stupid  thing,  used  to 
pitch  in  and  make  'em  eat  that  meal  in  Dutch,  or  Ger 
man  she  call'd  it — though  I  vum !  I  can't  see  no  dif 
ference  between  the  two.  And  dancin'  lessons !  and, 
O,  Lord !  I  can't  remember  half  they  were  studyin'  at, 
and  so  their  mother  let  'em  have  lots  of  play  too.  So  one 
day,  she'd  promised  to  take  'em  to  the  circus  at  night, 
and  they  were  sure  the  day  would  be  a  year  long ;  and 
some  one  invited  'em  to  go  out  on  the  lake  for  a  sail, 
and  she  ups  and  says,  'TIO.'  Well,  they  was  mad;  but 
she  was  weather-wiser  than  any  woman  I  ever  see,  and 
she  said  to  'em,  'No,  my  dearies,  its  fair  now,  but  its 
a  treacherous  fairness.  I  dare  not  let  you  go.'  Well, 
after  sulkin'  a  bit,  they  asked  if  they  might  go  and 
spend  the  day  at  Auntie  Anna's?  She  wasn't  their 
true  aunt,  they  jest  called  her  that,  and  she  was  nothin' 
but  a  slave  to  'em,  and  spoiled  'em — well,  don't  talk ! 


128  A  Silent  Singer 

'But,'  said  their  mother,  'if  you  go  there  to  take  tea, 
you  will  not  have  time  to  dress  for  the  circus!'  'Why, 
then,  dress  us  now;  we'll  be  careful  of  our  things, 
mammy,'  said  Edith,  '  and  then  we'll  come  right  from 
tea,  by  our  ownselves — oh!  please,  mammy,  yes  by  our 
ownselves,  and  we'll  stand  on  the  corner  over  there  and 
wave  our  hands  and  handkerchers  to  you  for  a  sign  for 
you  to  come  to  us,  and  then  we'll  all  go  on  up  town 
together.'  They  were  jest  sot  on  that  plan.  They 
felt  it  would  be  so  big  for  them  to  come  alone,  those 
few  blocks,  and  then  to  stand  on  the  corner  and  make 
signs  for  her  to  come  to  them,  and  seein'  as  she  had 
already  cross' d  them  once,  she  consented,  and  right 
away  they  were  dressed  and  started  off  under  the 
servant's  care  to  their  auntie's  house  for  the  rest  of  the 
day.  When  they  had  kissed  her  good-by  about  a  dozen 
times — for  the  way  they  loved  her  jest  was  a  caution  now, 
I  tell  you — little  Phil  runs  back  and  he  up  and  said, 
'  Mammy,  I'll  take  care  of  Edie — she's  the  biggest,  but 
I'm  the  strongest,  and  I'm  the  nearest  to  a  man,  ain't  I? 
So,  I'll  hold  her  hand  all  the  way  when  we're  alone, 
mammy,  and  I  won't  let  anybody  speak  to  her,  'till  you 
come  down  to  us,'  and  she  kissed  him  again,  and  called 
him,  as  she  often  did,  her  '  man-child,'  and  away  he 
went  after  Edie.  The  next  time  she  saw  the  poor,  little 
things,  Phil  was  a  keepin'  his  word. 

"Mrs.  Worden  went  on  with  her  doin's,  whatever 
they  was,  and  along  couple  hours  later  she  sees  the  sky 
darkenin'.  There  had  been  a  good  many  small  boats 


Old  Myra's  Waiting  129 

out  on  the  water,  and  she  felt  uneasy  when  she  noticed 
'twas  getting  dark.  Everythin'  along  the  bank  was 
different  then  to  what  it's  now,  you  know.  Some  of 
them  long  slopes  was  all  green  and  right  pretty  to  sit 
out  on,  and  lots  of  people  used  to  walk  there  and  look 
at  the  lake  and  do  their  sparkin',  and  sometimes  people 
would  crowd  the  bank  to  watch  a  wreck  and  shout  and 
yell,  if  any  one  was  saved.  Well,  as  I  was  sayin',  Mrs. 
Worden  she  goes  to  look  out,  when  a  girl  comes 
screechin'  to  her  '  that  a  boat  had  been  capsized,  and 
the  folks  that  had  gone  out  to  save  the  upset  people 
were  now  in  danger  from  the  wind  that  was  bio  win', 
and  there  was  crowds  out  there  watchin'  already!' 
Mrs.  Worden  wraps  herself  up  in  a  cloak  and  goes  out, 
too,  to  the  bank.  Lord!  Lord!  that  storm!  and  the 
shortness  of  it.  I  had  a  sailor  boardin'  here  then — 
nasty,  drunken  brute  he  was,  too — he  said  somethin' 
about  their  having  where  he  come  from  what  was  called 
a  'black  squall,'  and  that  that  was  one.  Well,  I 
don't  know  nothin'  about  black  squalls,  but  I  do  know, 
and  you  know,  and  every  one  else  as  knows  '  Old  Erie  ' 
at  all,  knows  there  ain't  no  lake  on  God's  earth  that's 
as  treacherous  or  as  lightenin'  quick  in  evil-doing,  and 
when  Mrs.  Worden  gets  out  there,  the  crowd  was  already 
crying'  out,  and  wringin'  hands,  and  runnin'  up  and 
down.  And,  sure  enough,  there  right  close  in  was  a 
bit  of  a  pleasure  boat  of  some  sort,  and,  oh,  dear!  I 
can't  tell  you  no  rights  or  wrongs,  I  was  there  too,  but 
when  I  seen  them  poor  creatures  hold  out  their  arms 


130  A  Silent  Singer 

towards  us  standin'  safe  011  solid  ground,  I  jest  sot 
right  down  on  the  bank,  for  my  legs  couldn't  hold  me 
up.  Then  a  rumor  ran  through  the  crowd  that  there 
was  children  on  the  boat,  and  one  great  groan  went  up, 
and  Mrs.  Wordeii  says :  '  God  pity  some  poor  mother's 
heart !  my  own  children  might  have  been  there,  for  they 
begged  to  go  out  to-day,  but  I  forbade  it,'  and  right 
behind  her  stopped  a  woman  who  had  come  up  runnin' 
like  mad,  and  was  movin'  her  lips  and  not  makin'  a 
single  sound,  and  that  woman  was  Aunt  Anna.  At 
that  moment  a  vivid  flash  of  color  was  seen  on  the  deck, 
it  was  a  girl's  pink  dress ;  next  instant  the  crowd  groaned : 
'The  children,  oh!  God!  see  the  children!  and  they 
are  holdin'  hands,  they  look  this  way ! '  A  man  was 
standin',  holdin'  a  pair  of  glasses  to  his  eyes,  and  with 
out  a  word  Mrs.  Worden  put  out  her  shakin'  hand  and 
seized  them,  while  the  silent  woman,  with  the  ashen 
grey  face,  fell  down  upon  her  knees  and  bowed  her  head 
behind  her.  The  instant  the  glass  was  at  her  eyes  Mrs. 
Worden  stopped  shakin'.  She  stood  solid  as  a  rock  and 
she  jest  said:  'Oh!  Mother  of  God!'  and  there  she 
stood,  and  it  was  only  a  moment  or  two  after  that,  oh ! 
well,  there  was  awful  screechin' f  rom  the  women  and  some 
groans  from  the  men,  and  it  was  all  over.  I  looked 
at  her.  She  took  the  glass  from  her  eyes,  and  holdin'  it 
in  her  hand  a  minute,  she  stood  looking  down  at  it, 
then  she  gave  a  kind  of  start-like,  and  she  holds  it  out 
to  the  man,  and  she  said  slowly,  each  word  kind  of  by 
itself,  '  I  thank  you,  sir,  it  is  a  good  glass,'  and  she 


Old  Myra's  Waiting  131 

turned  and  walked  a  step  or  two,  and  then  without  a 
sound,  fell  all  her  length,  upon  the  ground.  They 
carried  her  to  her  home,  but  Aunt  Anna  was  taken  to 
another  house  and  cared  for,  and  there  she  told  how 
she  had  not  been  strong  enough  to  refuse  them,  when 
they  had  entreated,  and  the  people  who  invited  them 
were  old  friends  of  hers,  and  would,  she  knew,  be  very 
careful ;  but  where  she  took  on  the  worst,  was  when 
she  told  about  how  the  dog  had  to  be  tied,  to  keep 
him  from  following  them.  The  ladies  feared  he  might 
j  ump  into  the  water  and  get  in  the  boat  again  and  spoil 
their  dresses ;  and  he  fought  like  mad  to  get  loose,  and 
howled  and  barked  his  voice  clean  away.  And  I 
havn't  no  doubt  but  he'd  a  saved  one  of  'em,  for  he  was 
that  strong,  and  a  regular  water-dog,  and  he'd  brought 
the  boy  out  against  his  will  more  than  once,  when 
people  had  sent  him  after  Phil  just  for  fun.  Well, 
Aunt  Anna  was  afraid  of  her  life  to  meet  Mrs.  Wor- 
den,  but  she  needn't  have  been,  for  she  hardly  noticed 
her  when  she  did  see  her.  The  doctors  that  come  that 
time  didn't  like  her  doin's  at  all.  She  never  cried  a 
minute.  That's  the  truth,  and  she  had  seen  her  own 
and  only  children  go  to  the  bottom  of  the  lake  hand  in 
hand.  People  that  went  there  cried;  the  help  just  cried 
buckets  full,  and  she  looked  at  'em,  and  one  day  she 
said :  4 1  wonder  how  they  do  it  ?  I  can't ! '  and  the 
doctor,  once  he  got  kind  of  mad-like,  and  he  says : 
4  Bend,  woman,  bend,  or  you're  bound  to  break  !  Do 
you  think  you  have  the  strength  to  bear  this  blow  as 


132  A  Silent  Singer 

you  bore  the  other  one  ? '  but  she  only  answered 
calmly :  4 1  am  what  I  am !  I  did  not  make  myself.' 
When  he  left  he  felt  all  upsot  and  he  was  cross  as  a 
bear  with  a  sore  head,  and  he  said  when  Aunt  Anna 
came  up  to  ask  about  her,  '  She  will  cry,  or  die,  or  go 
mad ;  and  the  last  looks  the  likeliest  to  me,'  and  off 
he  went.  The  minister  he  tried  what  he  could  do. 
He  was  a  pudgy,  kind-hearted  man,  and  he  had  young 
children  of  his  own,  and  he  tried  to  talk  resignation 
and  that  sort  of  thing,  and  she  jest  said  to  him  when 
he  got  good  and  through,  4  Has  your  house  been  made 
desolate  to  you  in  one  hour  ? '  and  he  jest  burst  right 
out  crying,  and  he  says,  *  Ah !  you  poor  woman,  how 
can  you  bear  it  ?  '  and  she  jumped  from  her  chair  and 
lifted  up  her  face,  and  beating  on  her  breast  with  both 
her  clinched  fists,  she  almost  screamed  out :  *  Bear  it  ? 
Bear  it  ?  Why  I — '  she  stopped  right  in  a  minute  and 
she  sat  down  and  said,  '  You  will  pardon  me,  won't 
you  ?  But,  see  now,  you  have  little  ones,  yours,  your 
own  blood  in  their  veins,  and  you  can  imagine,  can't 
you,  the  hunger,  the  agony  of  hunger  I  suffer  for  a 
sight  of  my  little  ones'  faces?  I  could  wait  a  thousand 
years  if  only  I  could  see  them  then,  but  they're  out 
there!'  waving  her  hand  toward  the  lake.  'Never, 
never,  shall  I  see  them  again  !'  and  he,  poor,  old  man, 
he  jest  sobbed  and  said :  4  Never,  till  the  sea  gives  up 
its  dead ! '  At  them  words  she  gave  a  great  cry — that's 
the  way  the  minister  put  it — she  gave  a  great  cry  and 
she  said :  '  My  God !  My  God !  I  had  forgotten — when 


Old  Myra's  Waiting  133 

the  sea  gives  up  its  dead,  and  His  words  stand  firmer 
than  the  everlasting  hills !'  She  threw  herself  upon  her 
knees,  and  holding  up  her  hands  she  cried  out  loud, 
4  Lord,  thou  hast  sent  my  soul  down  into  hell,  but  for 
Thy  great  words,  will  I  praise  Thee  forever ! '  She  turned 
and  kissed  the  minister's  hand  and  blessed  him  for 
reminding  her.  4  They  are  truthful  children,  and  have 
long  memories,'  she  said,  '  and  when  the  sea  gives  up 
its  dead,  they  will  give  the  promised  sign,  and  I  will 
join  them,  and  we  will  all  go  on  together.  '  So  I  will 
watch  and  wait,  just  watch  and  wait  for  my  dear  ones' 
sign ! '  And  that  was  full  fifty  years  ago,  for  I  was  but 
eighteen  then,  and  Myra  Wordeii  has  watched  at  that 
lake's  side  faithful  ever  since ;  though  from  that  day 
people  have  called  her  mad,  and  I  suppose  she  is,  poor 
soul." 

I  bowed  my  head  upon  my  hands ;  dully  I  heard  Mrs. 
Bulkley  going  on  about  some  bank's  failure,  something 
about  a  fire  that  had  followed  close  upon  the  failure, 
and  the  word  ruin,  many  times  repeated,  but  my  real 
attention  was  fixed  upon  a  picture  that  rose  before  me. 
I  saw,  as  plainly  as  I  ever  saw  anything  in  my  life,  a 
great,  level  plain,  and  far  away  against  the  angry  sun 
set  sky,  a  line  of  low  unwooded  hills  encircled  it.  It 
was  unspeakably  dreary — no  trees,  no  water,  no  rise  and 
fall,  dip  or  break  in  the  monotonous,  dead  level  of  the 
ground.  Far  away  to  the  left,  in  the  growing  dark 
ness,!  saw  the  towers  and  cupolas  of  a  fair,  white  city, 
and  from  its  distant  gates  a  path  was  worn  across  the 


134  A  Silent  Singer 

dismal  plain — a  path  so  faint,  so  narrow,  it  could  only 
have  been  made  by  one  lone  traveler's  feet.  At  the 
very  farthest  end,  and  on  either  side,  there  were  faint 
outlines  as  of  fallen  bodies,  and  there  were  broken  urns, 
and  jars,  and  some  withered  garlands;  but  for  all  its 
greater  length,  it  was  narrow,  faint  and  bare.  And 
while  I  looked,  suddenly,  at  its  opposite  end,  that  near 
est  to  the  hills,  there  appeared  the  figure  of  that  trav 
eler  whose  weary  feet  had  worn  that  piteous  path. 
Behind  her,  the  fair,  white  city  ;  before  her,  the  bleak 
and  savage  hills.  The  tall  figure,  in  its  sombre  gar 
ments,  seemed  the  very  spirit  of  desolation.  The  face  was 
turned  away  from  me,  but  there  was  that  in  the  figure 
which  made  my  heart  leap  up  in  quick  recognition,  and 
then,  so  truly  as  you  live,  then  I  heard  a  voice,  clear 
and  distinct,  but  seemingly  very,  very  far  away,  and  it 
said :  "I  am  Myra,  *  she  who  weeps ! ' : 

I  gave  a  start  so  violent  that  I  turned  my  tea-cup 
completely  over,  and,  putting  it  hastily  to  rights  again, 
saw  Mrs.  Bulkley  looking  her  grimy  handkerchief  over 
carefully  to  find  a  promising  bit  to  rub  her  glasses 
with.  Her  false  front  was  much  awry,  and  her  small 
eyes  were  red,  and  she  was  finishing,  as  she  had  begun, 
with  the  assertion  that  "  Mrs.  Worden  was  breaking 
up,  no  doubt  of  that,  since  she  had  taken  up  with  a 
theatre-girl,  of  all  people  on  the  footstool,  well!  well!" 

I  thanked  the  "Busy  B"  for  her  tea  and  her  informa 
tion,  and  I  greatly  fear  I  proved  an  unsatisfactory  con 
fidant  for  Mary,  who  dearly  loved  plenty  of  "  oh's !  " 


Old  Myra's  Waiting  135 

and  "ah's!  "  and  "did  you  ever's?"  while  she  poured 
forth  tales  of  the  numbers  of  magnificent  male  crea 
tures  who  madly  pursued  her  through  life,  she  always 
baffling  them,  however.  By  the  way,  she  must  have 
kept  up  her  habit  of  baffling  the  magnificent  ones, 
because  she  eventually  married  a  baker  with  a  veritable 
low-comedy  name,  by  the  side  of  which  "  Bowersocks," 
would  look  grave  and  dignified. 

The  pain  I  felt  in  hearing  Mrs.  Worden  coarsely 
and  disrespectfully  spoken  of  opened  my  eyes  to  the 
extent  of  the  veneration  and  affection  I  had  grown  to 
feel  for  her.  That  creature  in  whom  the  world  saw 
a  desolate  woman,  whose  haughty,  old  head  was  held 
high,  and  whose  piercing,  hawk's  eye  spied  out  its 
weakness,  but  in  whom  I  saw  the  wearily  faithful,  old 
watcher,  by  the  restless  lake,  waiting  through  the  long 
years,  always  "  waiting  for  the  sign."  To  me,  her  sor 
rows  had  made  her  sacred. 

I  had  never  seen  any  creature  who  seemed  so  abso 
lutely  bloodless  as  did  old  Mrs.  Worden,  and  no  matter 
how  often  I  might  meet  her,  the  moment  my  eye  took 
in  the  waxen  pallor  of  her  face,  I  experienced  an  uncanny 
feeling  of  familiarity.  I  would  ask  myself,  "  Of  whom 
does  she  remind  me?"  knowing  all  the  time  that  I  had 
never  seen  any  one  who  resembled  her  in  the  slightest 
degree. 

But  one  day  as  she  sat,  as  ever,  facing  the  lake,  with 
her  eyes  cast  down  upon  her  cup,  the  cold,  dull  light 
falling  upon  the  clear-cut  features  of  her  wax-white 


136  A  Silent  Singer 

face,  turning  it  into  a  veritable  mask  of  death,  I  looked 
steadily  at  the  hollow  of  her  temples— not  the  faintest 
pulsation  there.  I  gazed  steadily  at  her  throat — not  a 
pulse-beat  could  I  see,  though  I  knew  my  own  full 
throat  would  throb  and  swell  at  times  as  though  it  had 
an  independent  existence.  As  I  looked,  I  thought,  if 
she  should  run  a  needle  deep  into  her  finger  I  believe 
nothing  would  follow  its  withdrawal,  and  so,  like  a 
flash,  it  leaped  into  my  mind  who  she  was  like.  The 
very  counterpart  of  old  King  Duncan !  He  of  the 
mighty  tragedy — the  victim  of  that  woman  who  raved 
in  her  crime-haunted  sleep;  not  of  pity  at  his  "taking 
off,"  not  of  remorse,  but  only  of  that  stupendous  sur 
prise:  "Who  would  have  thought  the  old  man  had  so 
much  blood  in  him!" 

The  good,  old  man  with  the  wool-white  locks,  and 
the  saintly  soul  housed  in  the  parchment-like  body — 
yes!  like  this  he  looked.  Yet  her  dagger  thrust  had 
been  followed  by  a  rush  of  royal  blood  that  not  only 
"laced"  all  his  followers  and  "pooled"  about  his  body, 
but  stained  her  hand  with  a  stain  too  deep  for  an 
ocean's  waves  to  wash  away. 

Never  since  have  I  read  or  thought  of  Duncan  with 
out  seeing  Mrs.  Worden's  features  beneath  the  golden 
round  of  sovereignty.  All  the  life,  the  strength,  the 
spirit  she  had  left,  was  gathered  up  into  the  fire  of  her 
eyes,  and  when  the  ashes  of  her  lids  covered  their  glow, 
her  face  was  as  the  face  of  Duncan,  dead.  Were  Mrs. 
Worden  living  now,  she  would  probably  be  called  a 


Old  Myra's  Waiting  137 

"  mind  reader."  Then  many  people  declared  her  to  be 
clairvoyant.  Be  that  as  it  may,  she  had,  beyond  doubt, 
a  wonderful  power  of  reading  or  guessing  other  people's 
thoughts,  a  power  which  added  greatly  to  the  terror 
with  which  she  inspired  some  of  her  townsmen  whose 
thoughts  were  not  always  of  a  quality  or  nature  to 
invite  close  feminine  inspection.  As  for  myself,  she 
had  divined  my  thoughts,  time  and  again,  with  a  calm 
exactitude  that  filled  me  with  awe ;  and  that  day,  while 
1  still  gazed  at  her  mask-like  face,  she  raised  her  eyes, 
looked  steadily  into  mine  a  moment,  and  in  an  even 
voice  asked:  "Well?  Whom  am  I  like?  The  Witch  of 
Endor?"  and,  without  a  moment's  pause,  obediently  as 
a  little  child,  I  made  answer :  "  No,  ma'am,  you  are  like 
King  Duncan!" 

A  quick  frown  knit  her  black  brows.  Never  since 
that  far-away  day  of  the  giving  of  the  shawl-pin,  had 
she,  by  word  or  sign,  hinted  at  her  knowledge  of  my 
being  an  actress,  and  I  saw  the  allusion  to  Macbeth 
was  unwelcome  to  her.  However,  she  quickly  recov 
ered  from  her  annoyance,  and,  with  her  usual  aptness, 
asked:  "Do  you  find  the  likeness  purely  physical,  or 
do  I,  like  the  old  soldier  king,  « lag  superfluous  on  the 
stage  of  life'?" 

To  which  I  gaily  and  gratefully  replied:  "At  all 
events  I  shall  not,  like  Mistress  Macbeth,  try  to  'push 
you  from  your  stool'  I  " 

And  her  answer,  to  my  annoyance,  was :  "  How — 
how — is  she  going  to  do  it?" 


138  A  Silent  Singer 

She  was  thinking  aloud,  but  I  knew  only  too  well 
that  her  question  referred  to  me ;  and  equally  well  I 
knew  that  a  bad  quarter  of  an  hour  was  directly  before 
me.  Several  times  the  old  lady  had  declared  that  I  was 
going  to  make  my  mark  in  the  world,  but  she  was 
greatly  puzzled,  very  naturally,  to  know  how  I  was  to 
do  it.  She  had,  therefore,  fallen  into  a  way  of  analyz 
ing  my  character,  before  my  very  face,  with  positively 
brutal  frankness,  and,  so  far,  she  had  always  failed  to 
find  out  how  I  was  to  attain  the  success  she  foretold 
for  me. 

Really,  it  seemed  a  form  of  vivisection  she  subjected 
me  to,  and  I  squirmed  in  unpleasant  anticipation  when 
I  heard  that :  "  How — how  is  she  going  to  do  it  ?" 

I  had  no  suggestion  to  offer,  so  I  drank  my  coffee 
silently.  She  studied  my  face  a  moment,  and  then  she 
said :  "  Yes — yes,  you  will,  I  tell  you  !  But,  how  !  You 
are  not  aggressive  enough  to  win  by  force  I  Oh,  you 
can  fight  fast  enough,  flaring  nostrils!  but  you  will 
always  fight  on  the  defensive.  You  are  clever,  but  you 
are  not  clever  enough !  Intellect  isn't  going  to  win  for 
you.  How  are  you  going  to  do  it?  Yet  you  are  to 
dominate,  to  have  power.  I've  seen  it  in  the  arch  of 
your  bared  foot,  in  the  unbeautiful  square  of  your 
shoulders,  in  the  tenacious  grasp  of  your  hand.  If  you 
had  great  beauty  now — there,  don't  redden  that  way: 
never  blush  above  the  eyes,  it's  not  becoming — you  are 
all  right ;  you're  straight,  and  fair,  and  wholesome.  You 
have  enough  good  looks  for  men  to  hang  their  lies  upon, 


Old  Myra's  Waiting  139 

but  you  have  not  a  world-conquering  beauty.  Deuce 
take  me,  girl,  if  I  can  make  it !" 

While  she  had  been  harrying  me  I  had  once  turned 
my  head  to  see  why  the  room  had  darkened  so  notice 
ably,  and  saw  a  heavy  fog  was  creeping  in  from  the 
lake,  and  now  that  she  had  come  to  her  "giving it  up" 
place,  she  turned  her  eyes  slowly  toward  their  usual 
resting  place,  the  lake,  and  a  quick  change  came  over 
her.  She  started  a  little,  then  her  head  drooped  slowly 
until  her  chin  rested  on  her  hand.  With  unwinking 
eyes  she  stared  straight  ahead  of  her,  while  gradually 
the  brightness  all  died  out  of  them,  a  slightly  distressed 
raising  of  her  brows  threw  deep  furrows  across  her 
forehead,  her  nostrils  were  pinched,  her  thin  lips  tight 
pressed,  while  over  all  her  face  grew  a  look  only  to  be 
described  by  one  word — a  look  of  woe ! 

It  wrung  my  heart !  I  looked  and  looked  at  her — 
the  tears  rose  thick  in  my  eyes,  then  slowly,  slowly  I 
seemed  to  understand,  to  know,  what  was  grieving 
her.  It  was  the  surrounding  fog,  silently,  steadily, 
blotting  out  everything  between  heaven  and  earth ! 
Even  her  longing  mother's  eyes  could  not  pierce  that 
soft  density,  could  not  distinguish  the  purplish,  dark 
line  that,  to  her  belief,  marked  her  darlings'  resting 
place  out  there  in  the  great  lake. 

I  bore  it  as  long  as  I  could,  and  then  I  leant  across 
the  tiny  table,  and,  laying  my  warm  hand  upon  her  chill 
one,  I  said:  "Dear  Mrs.  Worden,  do  not  grieve, 
the  fog  often  lifts  at  sunset.  Then,  perhaps,  you 


140  A  Silent  Singer 

may  see  the  purple  line  before  the  night  comes 
on!" 

Her  eyes  came  slowly  back  to  mine,  she  smiled  grate 
fully  at  me,  and  then  all  suddenly  the  fire  flashed  into 
them  again.  She  rose  to  her  feet,  her  head  held  high 
in  her  imperious  way,  and  cried,  triumphantly :  "I  have 
it  now,  girl!  You  have  given  me  the  clue!  You 
will  succeed  by  your  power  of  sympathy !  You  will 
not  fight  the  world,  you  will  open  your  great  heart 
to  its  sorrows,  and  the  many-headed  public  will  neither 
growl  at  nor  tear  you,  but  will  come  at  your  call,  your 
friend  and  your  defender.  When  you  know  you  have 
succeeded,  say  once  to  yourself,  '  Old  Myra  saw,  old 
Myra  told  me  true.' ' 

Then  with  an  indescribably  tragic  gesture  she  pressed 
one  hand  upon  her  breast  and  said:  "She  who  weeps!" 
while  her  other  hand  fell  softly  upon  my  head,  and  she 
murmured,  "  Clear,  Light,  Illustrious! " 

Her  tone  thrilled  me,  there  was  such  sincerity,  such 
intensity  in  it.  I  sat  quite  silent,  but  I  drew  her  cold  hand 
down  and  pressed  my  cheek  against  it,  and  that  moment 
there  came  a  heavy  knocking  on  the  lower  front  door.  I 
sprang  up,  saying :  "  Let  me  go,  Mrs. Worden,  please !" 
and,  without  awaiting  permission,  went  cautiously  down 
the  sagging  stairs  and  found  a  man  at  the  door  with 
the  usual  sealed  package  for  Mrs.  Worden.  When  the 
signing  for  it  was  all  over,  I  ran  back,  calling  out  joy 
ously,  "Lace!  lace!  Mrs.  Worden — more  lace!  You  will 
open  it  before  I  go,  won't  you,  so  that  I  may  see  it?" 


Old  Myra's  Waiting  141 

Mrs.  Worden,  meeting  my  request  with,  "  You  girl  1 
When  are  you  going  to  learn  not  to  prance  when  you 
are  pleased  ?  Can't  you  keep  your  joy  out  of  your 
legs?  "  went,  all  the  same,  to  the  other  table  for  scissors 
to  cut  the  cord  and  seals  at  once ;  for  she  really 
enjoyed  showing  me  her  precious  charges ;  and  I  eagerly 
watched  her  every  movement.  The  note  enclosed  she 
laid  aside  with  a  scornful,  "  Humph !  as  if  I  didn't 
know  what  to  do  without  their  telling  me." 

Then  she  unrolled  the  inner  tissue-paper.  There 
were  two  pieces  of  lace  within.  One  delicate,  oh !  as 
cobweb,  I  thought,  as  it  lay  there  in  its  folds.  The 
other  heavier,  and  a  mere  scrap. 

"  Why,"  said  she,  taking  it  up  first,  "why,  this  must 
be,  is  Si  bit  of  old  Flanders  cut- work,  but  what  a  scrap ! 
Oh,  yes  !  I  see  now,  it  belongs  to  some  collector  ;  it  is 
simply  an  example  of  the  brave,  old  work,  and  I  see, 
girl  Clara,  it  needs  two,  yes,  three,  little  brides  or 
braces — see  where  they  are  broken  ?  I'll  have  a  time, 
now,  to  wait  for  thread  to  darken  to  anything  like 
that  tone." 

And  she  talked  earnestly,  almost  happily  on,  about 
her  little  tricks  and  devices  for  staining  threads,  etc. 
Then  she  laid  her  hands  upon  the  folded  lace :  "  Ah, 
I  think  you're  going  to  have  a  treat  now,  this  is — " 
the  words  died  on  her  lips.  From  her  throat  came  a 
sound,  strange,  startling,  neither  sob  nor  groan,  and 
yet  like  unto  both !  She  held  a  length  of  lace  between 
her  hands ;  she  swayed  slightly  back  and  forth,  and 


142  A  Silent  Singer 

turning  my  frightened  eyes  upon  her  face,  I  thought : 
"  Behold !  a  miracle  !  " 

From  somewhere,  somehow,  the  weary,  old  heart  had 
forced  through  her  shrunken  veins  one  wave  of  blood 
strong  enough  to  mount  to  her  face,  where  the  pained 
color  slowly  grew  until  it  burned  into  two  bright  spots 
high  upon  her  cheeks.  Those  two  fierce  spots,  glowing 
in  the  awful  pallor  of  her  face,  to  me  were  terrible.  I 
ran  to  her  and,  throwing  my  arm  about  her,  lowered 
her  light  body  into  the  chair  close  to  the  table.  Her 
haughty,  old  head  was  bent ;  one  hand  still  clutched  the 
lace.  I  did  not  know  what  to  do,  but  it  hurt  me  to 
the  heart  to  see  her  bow  her  head.  Timidly  I  laid  my 
hand  upon  her  shoulder.  She  looked  up  at  me,  and 
in  a  husky  voice  she  said,  with  a  glance  at  the  lace  :  "I 
owned  it  once,  yes,  it  was  mine !  I  wore  it  while  I  was 
yet  a  happy  bride !  " 

I  shivered  and  turned  away,  while  I  mutely  prayed 
that  torturing  color  might  fade  from  her  face  before  I 
looked  again.  I  pressed  my  forehead  to  the  window, 
I  could  see  nothing ;  no  tree,  no  building  loomed  darkly 
through  the  fog ;  I  could  not  even  see  the  pavement 
below  me.  So  far  as  sight  went,  there  were  but  two 
living  creatures  in  the  world,  and  one  of  them  longed 
to  leave  it! 

I  was  so  lonely  and  so  sad,  I  turned  back  again.  She 
sat  there  still,  one  hand  moving  back  and  forth  over 
the  lace.  The  spots  were  yet  on  her  cheeks,  but  they 
were  not  so  fiercely  bright.  I  did  not  know  her  like 


Old  Myra's  Waiting  143 

that.  I  wish  she  would  accuse  me  of  "  prancing,"  or 
tell  me  I  "  sat  down  too  quickly,"  or  "  jumped  up  "  when 
I  rose.  I  wished  she  would  snap  at  me — that  her  dear, 
old  head  would  lift  itself  imperiously  again.  I  had  not 
spoken  one  word  since  she  told  me  the  lace  had  been 
hers,  and  so,  still  silent,  I  crossed  back  to  her  and  sat 
down  at  her  feet  and,  hesitatingly,  I  asked :  "  Dear 
Mrs.  Worden,  is  the  lace  much  injured  ?" 

The  words  acted  like  magic  upon  her.  In  one 
moment  she  had  the  length  of  lace  passing  swiftly 
between  her  inquiring  fingers,  and  an  instant  later  she 
gave  a  cry  of  anger:  "Oh!  shame!  just  look  at  this 
—the  cruel  hurt!  and  the  soil!  Why,  some  vulgar, 
new,  rich,  money-flaunting  creature  owns  this  dear  lace 
now !  She  is  ignorant  and  coarse !  Oh,  I  know,  girl ! 
Don't  you  see?  She  has  dragged  this  delicate  web 
about  on  the  bottom  of  her  gown !  Its  beauty  was  lost 
in  such  a  position.  It  was  simply  done  to  show  the 
owner's  utter  indifference  to  expense.  I'd  wager  some 
thing  that  it  has  been  sent,  now,  by  some  maid  or  com 
panion  to  be  repaired.  Ah !  I  should  have  recognized  it 
any  way — but  look  you,  here  is  the  proof  that  it  is  mine !" 

She  held  out  to  me  a  fold  of  the  lace,  and  careful 
examination  showed  where  a  former  tear  had  been 
exquisitely  repaired.  I  nodded  my  head  and  she  went 
on,  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  old  scar :  "  As  if  I  could 
forget !  He  did  that,  my  fair-haired  giant — man  with 
out  soul — therefore,  husband  without  honor !  But,  truly, 
he  was  good  to  look  upon!" 


144  A  Silent  Singer 

I  moved  restlessly ;  she  took  no  notice ;  evidently  I 
had  ceased  to  exist  for  her :  "  Fickle,  changeable  as  a 
child,  unstable  as  water !  But,  he  loved  me  for  a  little 
while.  He  loved  me  then,  the  night  T  wore  this  lace 
to  the  rout.  It  was  falling  full  and  deep  about  my 
bare  shoulders,  as  they  rose  from  the  golden  yellow  of 
my  gown  that  was  brocaded  with  a  scarlet  flower.  I 
wore  some  diamonds  and  stood  with  others  in  my  hands, 
hesitating,  when  he  came  in — my  Philip — and  looked 
at  me  reflected  in  the  glass,  and,  standing  behind  me,  he 
said,  in  the  great  voice  I  loved :  4  Burn  my  body,  but 
you  are  a  handsome  woman,  Myra  ! '  and  he  kissed  me 
on  the  shoulder.  'Twas  like  wine  taken  on  a  cold  day; 
I  felt  it  mounting  to  my  brain !  We  were  at  Christmas- 
tide,  and  a  bough  of  holly  was  hanging  above  the  dress 
ing  table.  He  broke  a  bunch  of  its  scarlet  berries  and 
dark,  bright  leaves,  and,  with  a  great  jewel,  fastened  it 
here,  in  the  lace  at  my  bosom.  His  fingers  were  clumsy 
and  the  leaves  were  sharp  as  needles,  and  so  my  lace 
was  torn — but  what  cared  I?  The  sharp  leaf -points 
wounded  my  neck,  too,  and  drew  more  than  one  drop  of 
blood,  but  had  they  come  straight  from  the  heart,  I 
would  still  have  worn  the  ornament  his  hand  had 
placed.  My  Philip !  so  much  I  loved  him — loved  him ! 
Bibber  of  wine  and  companion  of  harlots  ;  fair,  like  a 
God,  yet  without  soul ;  so,  being  soulless,  why  should  he 
be  cursed  for  riotously  living  in  the  sunlight,  and  for 
following  in  the  train  of  the  scarlet  woman — with  the 
laughter  of  fools  ringing  in  his  ears!  The  lace  is  here, 


Old  Myra's  Waiting  145 

the  smooth,  white  shoulders  are  shrivelled  and  bent, 
the  black  crown  of  hair  he  loved  is  gone,  he  is  gone, 
only  the  lace  and  my  memory  are  left!" 

I  drew  softly  away  from  her.  I  felt  as  guilty  in 
listening  to  her  self-communing  as  I  could  have  felt 
had  I  opened  and  read  one  of  her  letters.  I  took  my 
cloak,  and  as  I  drew  it  on,  I  heard  her  low  voice  say 
ing:  "You  said  my  tongue  was  not  sharp  enough, 
Philip ;  that  was  because  I  loved  you !  Her  tongue 
was  sharp,  she  cursed  and  flouted  you,  and  stung  and 
maddened,  and  tossed  you  a  favor  as  a  bone  is  tossed 
to  a  dog !  She  was  not  even  beautiful,  your  frail  one, 
but  she  knew  well  the  ways  that  lead  down  to  darkness 
and  to  death !  She  led,  steeped  in  vice  and  reeling 
with  wine,  and  you  followed  because  you  were  without 
soul,  my  Philip !" 

I  crept  out  of  the  door  and  left  the  bowed,  weary, 
old  woman  patiently  examining  the  torn  meshes  of  two 
webs.  One  her  web  of  lace,  the  other  her  web  of 
life.  And  as  I  stole  through  the  chilly,  gaunt,  old 
house  not  one  of  its  faint  voices — and  it  had  many — 
whispered  to  me  :  "It  is  nearly  over — a  little  while  and 
you  will  come  no  more  !  A  little  while  and  she  will  have 
gone,  and  there  will  be  no  one,  and  nothing  here  only 
the  old,  old  house,  and  we,  its  voices  ! " 

Some  very  busy  days  followed — long  rehearsals  every 
morning,  and  a  new  part,  of  greater  or  lesser  length, 
every  night ;  and  it  must  have  been  a  fortnight  later 
when,  being  out  of  the  bill,  I  put  a  bit  of  work  in  my 


146  A  Silent  Singer 

pocket,  took  a  book  in  my  hand,  and  thus  prepared  for 
finding  my  old  friend  either  in  or  out,  started  to  make 
her  a  visit. 

As  I  approached  her  door,  I  heard  her  talking,  and 
said  to  myself,  she  must  be  over  by  the  fire-place,  her 
voice  is  so  indistinct. 

I  tapped,  but  received  no  answer.  Just  then  there 
came  a  pause  in  the  talk  within,  and  I  tapped  again ; 
this  time  more  loudly,  but,  to  my  surprise,  I  received 
no  invitation  to  enter,  though  the  talking  was  resumed 
in  another  moment. 

I  felt  somewhat  hurt,  and  turned  to  go  away,  but 
something  restrained  me,  and  I  thought  I  would  first 
make  quite  sureih&t  she  knew  of  my  presence,  I  would 
knock  loudly.  As  I  raised  my  hand  to  do  so,  I  heard 
a  groan.  That  was  enough  for  me ;  I  waited  no  longer 
for  permission,  but  opened  the  door  and  stepped  in, 
and  there  amazement  held  me  motionless ;  I  no  not 
know  how  long,  for  this  room,  whose  orderliness  had 
always  been  of  that  precise  and  rigid  kind  suggesting 
daily  measurements  with  a  foot-rule,  was  now  in  com 
plete  confusion.  Chairs  out  of  place,  garments  here 
and  there,  and  the  usually  spotless  hearth  a  mass  of 
gray  ashes  and  fallen  black  cinders. 

And  that  small,  rumpled  heap  of  clothing  at  the  foot 
of  the  bed,  with  white  hair  tossed  and  tangled — was 
that — could  that  be  my  Mrs.  Worden? — she  whose 
habits  of  neatness  and  purity  were  carried  to  the 
extremities ;  she  who  011  a  bitter  winter  morning,  as  on 


Old  Myra's  Waiting  147 

every  other  morning,  sought  such  cramped  privacy  as 
her  gaunt,  old  screen  could  secure  for  her,  in  the  farth 
est,  bleakest  corner  of  her  room,  and  there,  with 
unskimped  thoroughness,  went  through  with  the  same 
process  of  grooming  she  had  indulged  in  sixty  years 
before,  when  she  had  had  her  maids  to  help  her,  after 
which  she  put  herself  into  a  sort  of  bolster  case,  with  a 
hole  in  the  far  end  for  the  passage  of  her  head — and 
in  this  blue  linen  bag  she  became  her  own  house  maid, 
and  when  the  toilet  of  the  room  was  finished  to  the 
points  of  its  very  fingers  she  again  retired  to  the  pri 
vacy  of  her  screen  and  finally  emerged  "  clothed  and 
in  her  right  mind,"  as  she  used  to  say,  when  she 
appeared  in  her  worn,  old  black  gown,  her  black  silk 
apron,  her  snow-white  collar  and  small  cuffs,  and  her 
bit  of  white  tulle,  by  way  of  cap,  upon  her  satin-smooth 
hair — and  was  this  she,  was  this  her  room? 

Suddenly  Mrs.  Worden  drew  down  the  arm  which 
had  been  resting  across  her  face,  and,  looking  at  me, 
exclaimed  :  "  Oh,  Betty,  you  are  so  late  !  Is  break 
fast  ready  now  ?  My  head  aches,  Betty  ;  you  never 
kept  me  waiting  so  long  before !  " 

She  rolled  her  head  from  side  to  side,  and  moaned  a 
little,  and  while  I  threw  off  my  wraps  I  recalled,  with 
a  heavy  heart,  the  words  of  Mrs.  Bulkley :  "  She's 
breakin'  up  ;  old  Myra  Worden  is  breakin'  fast." 

I  hastened  to  reduce  the  room  to  something  like  order, 
to  mend  the  fire  and  prepare  some  tea  and  rather  doubt 
ful  toast,  and  when  I  had  placed  her  in  her  chair  and 


148  A  Silent  Singer 

her  eyes  took  in  the  familiar  picture  of  the  lake, 
they  cleared  perceptibly.  She  nodded  her  head  and 
murmured :  "  Yes,  my  dearies,  yes !  I'm  waiting 
for  the  sign,  you  won't  be  long  now!  no,  not  long, 
not  long ! " 

I  came  to  her,  then,  with  the  tea  and  the  toast,  and 
was  delighted  when  she  called  me  "you  girl"  again, 
and  hoped  she  would  scold  me  about  the  fire  I  had 
made,  but  she  scolded  me  no  more  forever. 

She  had  asked  so  many  times  for  breakfast,  yet  now 
she  could  not  eat  one  morsel,  but  she  drank  her  tea 
like  one  famishing.  While  I  arranged  her  bed,  she 
babbled  on,  and  most  of  the  time  she  talked  to  her 
children.  Once,  however,  she  declared  that  if  Sally 
stole  another  cracker  she  would  throw  her  from  the 
window,  and  vowed  no  one  in  town  would  be  fool  enough 
to  pick  her  and  her  vocabulary  up. 

When  I  was  smoothing  her  white  hair  into  some 
thing  like  its  usual  order,  one  lock  escaped  my  fingers 
and  fell  forward  on  her  chest.  She  saw  it  and  cried 
out :  "  They  have  cut  it  off,  oh,  curse  them !  curse  them  ! 
Betty,  do  you  see  ?  Its  gone,  and — "  she  paused,  look 
ing  curiously  at  the  thin,  glittering  strand  of  hair — 
"  and,  Betty,  either  I've  gone  mad  or  it's  quite  white! 
Oh,  Betty,  I  cant  understand  !  " 

And  so,  as  Betty — some  long-dead  Betty  from  her 
past — I  put  the  suffering  woman  back  into  her  great 
skeleton  of  a  bed,  and  smoothed  her  brow  and  wet  her 
lips  times  uncountable,  wondering  at  the  heat  in  her 


Old  Myra's  Waiting  149 

dry,  parchment-like  skin,  while  I  tried  to  decide  what 
ought  to  be  done  in  this  emergency. 

I  felt  that  a  doctor  should  be  summoned,  but  I  stood 
in  absolute  awe  of  her  will,  her  commands,  and  I  knew 
her  fixed  determination  never  to  have  a  physician's 
care.  She  held  "  she  could  not  die,  no  matter  what 
her  ailments,  until  she  had  '  the  sign,'  and  that  when 
'  the  sign  '  had  once  been  given  no  power  on  earth 
could  keep  her  here." 

So  I  dared  not  summon  proper  help;  my  next  thought 
had  been,  naturally  enough,  of  Mrs.  Bulkley,  the  only 
friend  of  the  old  days  left  to  her,  but  as  fate  would 
have  it,  Mrs.  Bulkley  was  absent  from  the  cityon  busi 
ness  that  would  detain  her  two  or  three  days.  Had  I 
not  heard  my  friend  Mary  rejoicing  the  night  before 
over  the  very  "  high  Jinks  "  the  boarders  were  hoping 
to  enjoy  during  that  absence  ? 

Then  indeed  my  spirits  sank,  and  I  could  only  sit 
there  and  watch  over  her  until  she  became  calmer,  and 
then  I  thought  I  would  slip  out  and  tell  my  landlady 
and  get  her  to  advise  me  what  to  do.  And  so  the  hours 
passed  slowly  by,  and  I  looked  them  in  the  face  with 
young,  impatient  eyes,  and  never  noted  their  dread 
solemnity.  For  all  my  anxiety  for  the  woman  who  was 
"breakin'  fast,"  I  had  no  faintest  suspicion  that  she 
was  already  broken — that  each  time  the  clock  struck  off 
the  afternoon  hours — the  four,  or  five,  or  six — it  was,  for 
the  ancient  woman  in  her  gaunt,  old  bed,  the  last  tune. 

To  know  that  we  are  doing  a  thing  for  the  last  time 


150  A  Silent  Singer 

lends  a  touching  grace  to  even  the  commonest  act;  but 
I  was  blind  with  that  black  density  of  blindness  that 
can  come  only  upon  the  very  young,  and  therefore  the 
very  ignorant,  and  I  only  waited  for  the  chance  to  slip 
away  and  ask  for  help  for  her. 

She  had  been  quiet  for  some  time,  and  I  softly  rose 
and  tried]  to  leave  the  room,  but  she  stopped  me.  "  Do 
not  go,  girl  Clara,"  she  calmly  said,  and  I,  rejoiced, 
went  back  to  her.  She  was  quite  reasonable  again, 
expressed  a  small  want  or  two,  wished  to  be  lifted 
higher  that  she  might  see  the  lake  better;  and  when  all 
had  been  accomplished,  she  asked  me  if  I  would  stay 
the  night  with  her.  Then,  with  great  diffidence,  I  told 
her  I  thought  she  should  have  a  doctor  first;  she  raised 
her  hand  and  looked  at  me  with  such  imperious  fire 
in  her  black,  old  eyes  that  I  silenced  myself  and  stood 
quite  meekly  before  her,  while  in  a  few  sharp  words 
she  disposed  of  the  "doctor"  question. 

"  Pray,  what  was  wrong  any  way  ?  She  supposed 
she  had  wandered  a  little  in  her  speech.  Well,  what 
of  it?  All  Cleveland  called  her  mad.  I  must  have 
heard  that  often  enough  ?  Why,  then,  a  doctor  to-day 
in  special?  As  for  Mrs.  Bulkley,  if  she  or  any  one 
else  entered  this  room,  she  would  find  strength  to  put 
her  on  the  proper  side  of  the  door.  Ah!  she  would, 
she  was  not  so  helpless,  etc." 

In  terror,  lest  she  should  again  bring  on  her  fever, 
I  yielded  to  every  demand,  and  so  peace  came  again. 

In  the  long  silence  that  followed,  I  noticed  that  the 


Old  Myra's  Waiting  151 

wind  was  rising  fast,  that  each  blast  was  stronger  and 
longer  than  the  one  preceding  it,  and  that  the  old  house 
trembled  ominously  under  each  fierce  gust.  The  shad 
ows,  that  earlier  in  the  day  had  been  content  to  linger 
in  the  corners,  had  with  stealthy  boldness  advanced  till 
they  had  filled  the  room  with  darkness,  through  which 
I  heard  the  faint,  fluttering  breathing  of  the  sick  woman 
in  her  great  bed,  and  the  shrill  scream  of  the  wind  as 
it  swept  across  the  lake  to  hurl  itself  upon  the  chal 
lenging  city. 

I  rose  at  last  to  light  the  lamp,  and  lifting  it,  was 
about  to  place  it  back  of  the  tall  head-board  of  the  bed, 
that  its  direct  rays  might  not  disturb  the  possible 
sleeper,  when  by  chance  the  light  fell  full  upon  the 
painted  face  of  the  laughing,  little  Phil.  The  effect 
was  wonderful ;  it  seemed  a  face  alive.  The  roguish 
eyes,  the  merry  smile  betraying  the  whitely  even  teeth, 
the  little  brown  hand  holding  back  the  panting  dog. 
He  was  joyous  life  personified,  and  I  stood  there  won 
dering  where  the  laughing  child  had  found  the  courage 
to  meet  death  so  bravely ;  and,  as  if  in  answer  to  my 
thought,  the  faint  voice  of  his  mother  came  from  the 
old  bed,  saying:  "Yes,  he  was  very  brave,  my  man- 
child  Philip,  brave,  brave !  You  know  I  saw  it  all. 
Aye,  it  was  a  good  glass,  a  strong  glass,  and  I  saw. 
She  was  afraid,  though  she  was  the  older,  and  her  poor, 
blue  eyes  were  strained  and  wild,  and  her  quivering 
lips  were  white  like  her  cheeks.  But  my  Philip  held 
her  hand  and  stood  still,  while  many  raced  madly  to 


152  A  Silent  Singer 

and  fro.  At  one  great,  approaching  wave  I  saw  his  lips 
move  and  I  felt  he  cried,  '  Mammy ! '  I,  too,  thought  it 
was  the  end,  but  as  it  broke  and  surged  away  they  were 
still  standing  hand  in  hand,  and  I  knew  Eternity  in  the 
moment  I  stood  waiting  there,  waiting  for  that  which 
came  !  There  were  cries  and  groans  about  me.  The 
mighty  wave  seemed  for  one  second  to  stand  quite  still, 
then  with  blinding,  crushing  force  it  struck  its  awful 
blow!  It  was  enough;  the  solid  deck  sank  swiftly  from 
beneath  their  feet,  the  water  rushed  between  their 
frightened,  little  lips  into  their  laboring  lungs,  and  it 
was  over  !  With  uplifted  faces,  and  hands  tight-clasped 
together,  they  went  down  before  my  tortured  eyes!  Ah, 
God !  'twas  hard ;  in  one  hour  my  life  made  desolate ! 
Yet  will  I  worship  Thee,  forever !  Hast  Thou  not  said, 
fc  the  sea  shall  give  up  its  dead '  ?  Aye,  and  for  that  great 
promise  I  worship  and  bow  down !  By  the  word  of  the 
Lord  were  the  heavens  made.  The  word  of  the  Lord 
is  true!  " 

The  thin,  curiously  faint  voice  sank  into  silence  for  a 
few  moments.  I  placed  the  lamp  as  I  had  intended, 
and  seated  myself  by  her  bedside  again.  She  faced  the 
lake — the  curtains  drawn  entirely  away  from  the  win 
dow.  I  faced  her,  leaning  slightly  against  the  bed. 
Her  eyes  were  nearly  closed,  but  her  lips  were  moving, 
and  presently  she  said,  as  if  continuing  a  conversation : 
"  No,  you  do  not  care  for  her.  No !  because  her  golden 
head  is  high,  and  she  holds  the  broken  necklace  in  her 
hand.  Why  broken?  Did  he  have  second  sight,  that 


Old  Myra's  Waiting  153 

artist  ?  Did  he  know,  and  was  the  broken  necklace  in 
her  hand  meant  as  a  warning  to  me  ?  You  care  for  my 
man-child,  because  he  laughs.  You  do  not  care  for  my 
4  gift-of-God,'  because  of  an  air,  a  manner ;  you  are 
wrong.  'Tis  but  a  way,  a  trick  of  movement.  On  my 
breast,  with  love-tightened,  little  arms  about  my  neck, 
she  was  as  sweetly  lovable  as  the  meekest  little  maiden 
in  the  land.  And  when  they  knelt  in  prayer,  with 
folded  hands,  her  head  was  bowed  as  humbly !  Oh !  " 
she  suddenly  cried,  "  Oh !  not  to  have  their  sweet  bodies 
to  love  and  caress  and  care  for,  not  to  have  their  eager 
minds  to  guard,  to  direct,  to  develop !" 

She  moaned  piteously,  and  then,  giving  a  great  sigh, 
she  added :  "  But  His  word  is  true,  and  there  is  the  sign 
to  wait  for  " — and  so  sank  into  a  long  silence. 

I  was  watching  her  closely,  and  suddenly  she  seemed 
to  cease  to  breathe.  I  rubbed  her  hands ;  I  called  her 
loudly.  She  feebly  opened  her  eyes  and  turned  them 
toward  the  cupboard  in  the  corner.  I  flew  to  it,  and 
searching  eagerly,  I  found  two  or  three  bottles  there,  one 
marked  cordial.  I  administered  some  as  quickly  as  I 
could,  and  saw  her  revive,  but  from  that  moment  I  was 
frightened,  and  I  noted  every  word  she  spoke  and  every 
movement  that  she  made.  Her  first  words  made  me 
shiver.  She  said :  "I  am  not  afraid,  girl  Clara,  but  I 
must  have  the  sign.  I  cannot  go  without  it." 

After  a  pause,  while  I  resumed  my  seat  facing  her, 
she  said:  "It's  very  good  of  you  to  stay  with  me. 
Strange,  after  so  many  years  alone,  to  have  companion- 


154  A  Silent  Singer 

ship  at  the  last.  Old  Myra  Worden  watched  over  by 
an  actress !  Verily,  the  world  does  move  !"  A  pause  $ 
and  then  she  babbled  on :  "  Ever  since  the  night  you 
came  to  me  out  of  the  storm  and  tried  to  be  kind  to  me, 
I  have  known  you  were  some  way  connected  with  the 
sign.  You  admired  my  treasures  there,  you  loved  my 
old  laces,  and  sometimes  I  thought — I  almost  thought 
that  you  liked  me." 

"Dear  Mrs.  Worden,"  I  cried,  "I  love  you  very 
much! "  and  I  lifted  the  hand  I  was  holding  to  my  lips 
and  kissed  it.  I  felt  her  start,  her  black,  old  eyes 
flashed  wide  open,  she  gave  me  a  piercing  glance  and 
exclaimed :  "  What  ? — what's  that  you  say — you  say 
_you ?" 

I  repeated  with  tears  in  my  eyes  :  "I  say,  I  love  you 
very  much,"  and  again  I  pressed  my  lips  upon  her  cold 
and  trembling  hand.  She  closed  her  eyes ;  she  pressed  her 
thin  lips  close,  but  could  not  hide  their  quivering,  and 
presently,  in  almost  a  whisper,  she  murmured  :  "  Fifty 
and  odd  years  since  those  words  were  used  to  me.  'Tis 
almost  like  a  foreign  tongue.  But,  oh,  my  girl,  my 
girl !  it's  mighty  pleasant  hearing.  You — You — 

"  I  love  you — I  love  you  very  much,"  I  slowly  and 
lowly  repeated,  and  she  nodded  her  head  at  each  word, 
and,  smiling  faintly,  sank  into  quietude.  The  time  was 
long,  the  clock  struck  more  than  once,  and  she  had  not 
moved.  My  hand  was  holding  hers.  I  feared  to 
release  it  lest  I  might  disturb  her.  The  fire  was  long 
out,  and  I  was  cold.  I  wondered  if  she  was  asleep.  I 


Old  Myra's  Waiting  155 

had  twice  been  deceived  on  that  subject,  and  dare  not 
venture  an  opinion.  I  longed  for  dawn.  Leaning  on 
the  bed,  holding  her  hand  closely  in  mine,  I  raised  my 
tired  eyes  and  began  dully  following  the  involved 
design  carved  upon  the  high  head-board.  I  do  not 
know  just  when  I  lost  the  design,  but  I  felt  no  shock 
when  I  realized  that  I  was  looking  at  the  lake,  though 
I  had  not  turned  round.  I  wondered  faintly  how  it 
could  be,  but  I  went  on  gazing  quietly  across 
the  heaving,  tossing,  gray,  repellant  waste,  and  in  the 
changes  that  followed  I  heard  certain  words,  but 
whether  those  words  were  spoken  by  myself  or  fell  from 
the  lips  of  the  ancient  woman  at  my  side,  I  shall  never 
know.  I  only  know  I  heard — I  saw. 

At  first  the  sky  was  dull  and  gray  and  heavy,  like 
the  lake ;  but  as  I  looked  far,  far  off,  where  the  sky  and 
water  met,  there  came  a  whiteness  of  the  purity  of  snow, 
and  it  grew  and  spread  and  filled  up  all  the  sky  so  far 
as  eye  could  reach,  and  then  I  heard  a  voice  say,  faint 
and  low  :  "  Can  it  be  mist  ?  " 

And  at  the  words  the  whiteness  became  lambent  with 
living  fire.  As  sheet-lightning  plays  across  the  summer 
sky,  so  this  soft  fire  flashed  on,  in,  through,  up,  down 
and  across  the  milky  wonder,  while  the  lake — oh,  mar 
velous  !  The  heavy  gray  was  gone,  the  water  clear,  pure, 
brilliant,  vast — lay  like  a  mighty  crystal,  and  the  voice 
murmured :  "  As  a  sea  of  glass !  " 

Presently  this  lambent  whiteness  began  to  throb  and 
thrill  with  color;  streams  of  pink  and  rose,  of  amber,  blue 


156  A  Silent  Singer 

or  violet,  played  up  and  down  the  sky — a  green  so  vivid, 
so  acutely  pure,  that  the  voice,  speaking  from  the  great 
book,  said  :  "A  rainbow  like  unto  an  emerald." 

Between  me  and  that  great  background  of  living, 
opulent  color  I  dimly  saw  a  movement  in  the  air,  and 
then  it  thickened  with  crowding,  opaque,  white  shapes, 
even  as  one  has  seen  the  air  thicken  with  the  white 
movement  of  the  snow-flakes — so  now,  from  horizon  to 
zenith  and  to  horizon  again,  all  the  air  was  filled  with 
the  swift-moving,  never-resting,  great,  white-winged  host, 
and  ere  the  cry  in  my  throat  could  escape  my  lips,  these 
unnumbered  ones  fell  apart  into  two  vast  bodies,  while 
between  them  there  lay  straight  across  the  bosom  of  the 
crystal  waters  a  broad  path  of  glittering  light. 

My  heart  was  plunging  wildly  against  my  ribs  when 
I  heard  the  voice,  so  low,  saying :  u  The  sea  knew 
Him — knew  His  voice — His  touch  !  How  the  waves 
must  have  rushed  upon  the  sand  to  kiss  the  precious 
foot-prints  His  sacred  feet  had  made  !  "  And  while  these 
words  were  uttered,  out,  far  out,  upon  the  glittering 
path  arose  a  radiance,  even  then  intense,  almost  beyond 
the  power  of  mortal  eye  to  bear ;  my  swift  lids  fell  to 
shield  my  dazzled  sight.  Yet  one  moment  more  I 
gazed  and  saw — I  say  I  saw  that  supernatural  radiance 
taking  form  and  substance  and  assuming  the  attitude  of 
most  majestic  humanity. 

I  could  bear  no  more  ;  I  threw  the  sick  woman's  hand 
from  me  to  clutch  at  my  own  strangling  throat,  and  all 
was  gone !  I  saw  the  carved  head-board — nothing  more ! 


Old  Myra's  Waiting  157 

Shaking  like  a  leaf,  I  turned  my  head  toward  Mrs. 
Worden's  face,  and  dimly  I  understood  that,  by  some 
route  of  nerves,  her  vision  had  been  conveyed  to 
my  brain.  She  sat  there  against  her  pillows  gasping, 
her  nostrils  quivering,  her  black  eyes  fairly  blazing. 
She  passed  her  tongue  across  her  parched  lips,  and  I 
heard  the  low  voice  say:  "  It  cannot  be — no,  it  cannot! 
for  He  has  said  no  man  shall  look  upon  His  face  !  But 
it  might  be,  perhaps,  that !  Oh !  I  can  raise  my  eyes 
no  higher — the  light  is  blinding — and  yet,  and  yet — 
oh  !  'tis  He  !  It  is  the  Master  !  " 

Her  hands  were  clasped  upon  her  breast,  her  body 
shaken  by  her  laboring  heart — while  in  terror  of  that 
recognition — her  soft,  white  hair  crisped  itself,  and 
moved  upon  her  brow  and  hollow  temples,  while  in  a 
husky  whisper  she  repeated :  "  'Tis  He  ! — the  All-Beauti 
ful  !  Do  I  not  see  His  sacred  feet,  beneath  the  falling 
robe  press  the  gently  yielding,  watery  path?  Can  He 
have  come  in  fulfillment  of  the  great  promise  ?" 

Then,  with  a  piercing  cry,  she  stretched  out  her  arms 
pleadingly,  saying :  "Master!  Master!  I  may  not  look 
upon  the  glory  of  Thy  face,  but  Thou  wilt  hear  me ! 
Oh !  Thou  lover  of  little  children—  pause — pause  ! 
They  lie  so  near  Thee,  but  one  step  away!  Thou  wilt 
not  pass  them  by !  Summon  them,  Son  of  Mary  !  always 
pitiful  to  mothers,  pity  me !  and  summon  them  !  Ah ! 
the  Hand  is  raised — the  Blessed  Hand,  irradiating 
Light — is  raised,  and  there — there — Oh  King  of  Kings ! 
— they  are  there!  Hand  clasped  in  hand — at  the 


158  A  Silent  Singer 

Beloved  Master's  knee — they  smile  at  me !  they  raise 
their  little  hands,  and,  Power  Supreme !  they  make  the 
sign!" 

The  room  rang  with  her  wild,  triumphant  cry  of  joy ! 
She  flung  her  frail  arms  wide,  and  repeated:  "The 
sign!  The  sign!"  then,  "Yes,  my  dearies,  mother's 
coming !  We  will  fall  down  and  worship,  and  then  we 
will  all  go  on  together !" 

Her  arms  dropped  suddenly — her  black  eyes  closed — 
and  she  fell  sidewise  into  my  arms ;  and  even  in  the 
very  moment  of  placing  her  upon  her  pillow  I  cast  one 
glance  through  the  uncovered  window  and  saw  but  the 
sullen  sky  bending  low  over  the  still  more  sullen  lake. 

She  never  opened  her  eyes  again,  and  as  she  lay  there 
so  still,  so  white,  I  could  not  but  notice  how  gentle  her 
face  had  grown,  and  bending  down  for  the  first  and 
last  time,  I  kissed  her  tenderly.  A  slow  smile  came 
about  her  lips,  and  she  spoke  for  the  last  time,  when 
she  said  softly,  happily :  "  The  sign !  It  is  the  sign  !" 

A  moment  later  there  was  a  long  sigh,  broken  by  a 
shiver,  and  then  stillness,  perfect  stillness,  and  I  whis 
pered  :  "  They  have  all  gone  on  together !" 


"In  Paris  Suddenly 


"In  Paris  Suddenly 


I  saw  it  in  the  Herald  this  morning :  "In  Paris 
suddenly,  Madame  de  B ."  Nothing  remark 
able  about  that  announcement.  Nothing  to  affect  the 
general  reader,  but  to  me  the  letters  were  luminous. 

"  In  Paris  suddenly,  Madame  Miriam  de  B ." 

The  creep  is  in  my  blood  yet,  for  you  see,  I  met  Madame 

Miriam  de  B once,  and  if  I  were  to  live  in  this 

world  even  unto  a  hundred  years,  I  should  not  forget 
that  brief  meeting. 

The  house  was  crowded ;  we  were  yet  in  the  first  act 
of  the  running  play,  one  night,  when  a  companion,  a 
young  society  woman  (who  was  trying  to  unlearn  in  a 
theatre  all  she  had  been  taught  as  an  amateur)  edged 
close  to  me  and  whispered :  "  Look  at  the  woman  in  the 
box  ;  is  she  not  beautiful  ?  " 

I  looked  and  answered  quickly :  "  She  is  hand 
some,  not  beautiful." 

"  I  can't  see  any  difference  between  the  meaning  of 
the  words,"  she  pouted,  "  but  look  well  at  her,  I  have 
something  to  tell  you  when ." 

Here  the  action  of  the  play  parted  us,  but  brought 
me  close  to  the  box.  I  had  needed  no  urging  to  look 
well  at  its  occupant.  I  could  scarcely  take  my  eyes 
from  her,  there  was  something  so  strange,  so  odd  about 
her.  She  was  not  young.  She  was  most  stately  in  air 
and  figure.  Her  head  was  most  beautifully  shaped, 


162  A  Silent  Singer 

her  features  regular,  her  chin  firm  and  deeply  cleft, 
and  her  eyes — not  black,  not  brown — yet  dark, 
radiantly  dark.  Their  soft  shining  seeming  to  contra 
dict  the  cold  strength  of  her  face.  Her  brows — ah,  at 
last,  here  was  the  bizarre  touch !  Her  eyebrows 
formed  one  straight  line.  I  don't  mean  that  they  nearly 
met  or  were  thinly  joined;  they  were  thickly  and  darkly 
united,  in  one  threatening  sweep,  above  her  glowing 
eyes,  giving  that  hint  of  tragedy  to  her  face  that  so  surely 
accompanies  united  brows  on  either  man  or  woman. 

Once  her  eyes  caught  mine  and  calmly  held  them 
fast,  and  in  that  moment,  as  a  child  may  flash  a  blind 
ing  ray  of  sunlight  from  a  mirror  into  your  face,  there 
flashed  into  my  mind  these  words  :  "  Only  a  qualified 
admiration,  eh  ?  And  you  feel  something,  eh  ?  You 
don't  know  what  ?  No !  and  you  won't  know  either, 
my  dear !  "  and  I  ended  the  act  with  cheeks  as  hot 
from  wounded  feeling  as  though  the  words  had  actually 
been  spoken  to  me. 

I  was  not  in  the  second  act,  neither  was  the  "  young 
society  woman,"  or  at  least  she  was  on  the  stage  for 
about  three  minutes,  after  which  she  came,  swelling 
visibly  with  importance,  for  in  very  truth  she  had 
something  to  reveal,  and  first  exacting,  on  word  of 
honor,  promise  not  to  tell  (I  only  do  it  now,  when : 

"In  Paris  suddenly ").  She  quickly  began: 

"  You  can  see  she  is  a  lady,  can't  you?  Born  in  Bos 
ton — perfectly  lovely  family — old — very  old,  you 
know !  Was  splendidly  educated,  and  the  very  day 


"In  Paris  Suddenly "  163 

of  her  debut  in  society — I  don't  know  who  brought 
her  out,  her  mother  was  dead,  you  know — that  very 
day  her  father  killed  himself !  Kuined — no  courage 
and  all  that — she  had  no  near  relatives !  Went  off 
alone — went  abroad — worked  at  teaching  or  compan 
ioning  or  something !  Things  then  went  wrong — 
troubles  came,  awful  troubles !  Oh — oh !  "  The  speak 
er's  eyes  looked  fairly  scared,  her  hands  trembled,  she 
drew  close  to  me,  and  holding  fast  a  fold  of  my  dress, 
she  with  desperate  haste  flung  out  these  words :  "  She 
— that  American  woman — that  lady  sitting  there — she 
has  been  accused  of  murder !  Why,  she  has  stood 
trial  for  her  life  !  " 

I  could  only  gaze  at  her  in  stupid  silence,  and  after 
a  moment  she  rambled  on  about  her  uncle  being 

Madame  de  B 's  lawyer,  and  his  having  charge  of 

her  affairs  over  here,  as  she  would  not  live  here — would 
not  settle  anywhere  in  fact — just  wandered  from  place 
to  place,  etc. 

As  last  I  broke  in,  with  a  gasp  :  "  Murderess  !  She 
a  murderess  ?  But  why — how  ?  " 

"  Oh !  "  cried  my  informant :  "  She  was  innocent, 
of  course,  or  I  should  not  know  her  (I  had  not  thought 
of  that).  But  she  had  a  narrow  escape,  and  owed  it  to 
a  man  she  had  always  hated ;  to  the  dead  man's  valet." 

Again,  and  more  impatiently,  I  broke  in  :  "  But 
why — how — who  ?  " 

She  caught  the  last  word,  "  who,"  and  went  on : 
"Who  was  killed?  Why,  Count  de  Varney!  HQ 


164  A  Silent  Singer 

was  a  wicked,  old  wretch !  Had  a  palsied  arm,  and 
was  broken  in  health  when  Miriam  first  met  him  ! 
Well,  for  years  she  bore  his  name,  and  she  was  the 
active  mistress  of  his  great,  lonely  home,  and  a  most 
devoted  nurse  to  him,  but  she  was  terribly  alone !  The 
servants,  who  disliked  her  because  she  was  a  foreigner, 
she  ignored  all  save  one,  the  Count's  valet — him  she 
loathed  !  She  tried  to  have  him  sent  away  and  failed, 
and  he  knew  she  had  failed.  Not  a  pleasant  situation, 
was  it?  I  must  tell  you,  that  in  the  left  wing  of  the  great 
building  there  was  a  room  whose  windows  chanced  to 
overlook  those  of  the  private  apartments  of  the  Count 
and  Countess,  in  the  main  building.  This  peculiarity 
was  well  known,  too,  and  highly  valued  by  the  spying 
servants,  and  from  that  room  came  the  evidence  that 
so  nearly  ruined  their  hated  mistress.  The  Count  had 
been  improving,  but  as  his  strength  increased  his  tem 
per  roughened,  and  one  day,  through  one  of  his  bursts 
of  rage,  she  learned  that  she  had  been  cruelly,  deliber 
ately  betrayed — tricked  ! — by  the  merest  mockery  of  a 
marriage ;  one  that,  in  France  at  least,  was  utterly 
worthless  !  Surprise — -anguish — shame — all  at  last 
were  lost  in  fury!  A  fury  so  wild — so  filled  with 
threats — that  the  Count  fairly  quailed  before  it — 
begged  to  be  spared  a  scandal — swore  he  would  yet 
marry  her — nay,  he  would  now,  this  moment,  draw  up 
his  will  and  make  her  his  heiress  !  Give  all  to  her  in 
her  maiden  name — so  that  she  should  be  protected, 
should  aught  happen  to  him  before  he  could  marry 


"In  Paris  Suddenly-  165 

her !  This  will  he  proceeded  to  have  drawn  up  at  once, 
for  you  see,  during  those  past  years,  Miriam  had 
learned  much  of  his  outrageous  past  —knew  more  of  his 
secret  ill-doings  than  he  quite  realized — knew,  indeed, 
that  he  had  placed  himself  within  the  reach  of  law ! 
And  now,  in  her  otherwise  helpless  anger,  she  deter 
mined  to  at  least  punish  him  with  a  great  fright.  So 
she  secretly  prepared  and  sent  an  unsigned  letter,  of 
seeming  friendly  warning,  to  the  Count,  telling  him  of 
the  very  worst  of  his  past  acts.  That  he  had  been 
discovered  at  last,  and  that  by  the  evening  of  that  day 
the  officers  would  arrive  at  the  chateau  to  arrest  him ! 
The  letter  came — Count  de  Varney  read  it !  Miriam 
had  thought  to  frighten  him,  and  she  succeeded  so  per 
fectly  that  the  old  man — white-lipped — rose  from  the 
table,  and  took  his  trembling  way  to  his  own  room, 
where  he  hurriedly  and  clumsily  hung  himself." 

"Why,"  I  cried,  "I  thought  you  said  he  had  been 
murdered?  " 

"  Wait !  "  she  said  impatiently—"  Wait !  Over  in 
the  wing-room  there  was  a  woman,  not  spying  on  the 
movements  of  her  master  or  mistress — she  afterwards 
swore — but  being  in  love  with  the  valet,  she  was  watch 
ing  for  him,  and  so  happened  to  be  a  witness  to  the 
hanging  of  the  old  Count.  No  sooner — swore  this 
woman — had  her  master  kicked  away  the  chair  on 
which  he  had  been  standing,  than  a  door  opened  and 
Madame  de  Varney  entered.  For  one  instant  she 
stood  apparently  stunned  by  the  sight  before  her — and 


166  A  Silent  Singer 

then  she  laughed  !  She  made  no  movement  to  call  for 
help — she  offered  no  help  herself,  but  came  closer  to 
the  writhing,  horribly-struggling,  hanging  figure !  The 
woman  swore  that  once  her  master  threw  out  his  hand 
imploringly — that  she  thought  he  touched  her  mistress, 
she  was  so  close  to  him — but  she,  the  witness,  turned 
faint  just  then  at  the  awful  drawing  up  of  the  hanging 
man's  limbs  and  did  not  see  quite  clearly — but  another 
servant  joined  just  then,  and  both  watched — and  swore 
that  only  when  the  master  was  quite  still  did  the  mis 
tress  move,  and  then  she  went  first  to  a  desk  and  looked 
at  some  papers,  and  then  rushed  to  the  door,  throwing  it 
open  and  calling  for  help !  She  rang  the  bell  violently, 
and  the  valet  rushed  in  at  her  call,  as  if  he  had  been 
standing  at  the  very  door — but  before  he  made  a  move 
ment  to  cut  down  the  body,  he  spoke  fiercely  and  rapidly 
to  the  Countess,  and  turned  to  the  swaying  figure  of  the 
Count  de  Varney,  who  had  died  horribly  of  slow 
strangulation ! 

"  The  trial  was  long,  for  that  part  of  the  world.  The 
scandal  was  great,  the  mock-marriage  being  scoffed  at 
and  Madame  Miriam  de  B —  -  treated  simply  as  an 
adventuress.  The  will  in  her  favor  told  against  her 
greatly,  but,  to  the  stupefaction  of  every  one,  the  valet 
defended  her — swearing  he  had  seen  his  master  before 
his  mistress  had — that  he  was  dead  before  she  entered 
the  room— that  he  had  gone  for  help,  not  wishing  to 
touch  the  body  without  a  witness  being  present,  etc. 
She  swore  that  her  husband  was  dead  when  she  found 


"In  Paris  Suddenly-  167 

him — but  without  the  valet  she  would  certainly  have 
been  condemned  to  long,  long  imprisonment  at  the  very 
least.  She  lives  under  an  assumed  name  now,  and  just 
wanders  over  the  world,  as  houseless  as  — 

"  Third  act ;  everybody  ready !  "  shouted  the  call-boy. 

I  looked  about  in  a  bewildered  way  for  my  fan  and 
my  handkerchief,  and  went  to  my  place  on  the  stage, 
saying  to  myself :  "I  will  not  look  that  way  again 
to-night." 

The  third  act  was  known,  in  theatrical  parlance,  as 
the  strong  act  of  the  play.  In  it  I  had  to  attempt  to 
poison  my  rival,  who  had  formerly  been  my  beloved 
friend,  and  at  the  very  last  moment,  when  the  poison 
was  at  her  very  lips,  with  a  strong  revulsion  of  feeling, 
I  had  to  snatch  it  away  and  swallow  it  myself,  and  then 
proceed  with  the  death  scene,  which  naturally  followed. 

I  had  kept  my  promise;  I  had  not  looked  once 
toward  the  stage  box.  I  had  worked  myself  well  into 
my  character  again  and  was  doing  my  best  to  be  it,  and 
not  myself.  That  night  I  had  just  reached  my  half 
unconscious  victim  and  was  cautiously  raising  the  poi 
soned  drink  to  her  lips,  when  some  absolutely  outside 
power  dragged  my  unwilling  eyes  from  her  face  and 
left  me  staring  straight  into  the  eyes  of  the  woman 
*'  who  had  been  tried  for  her  life  "  ! 

The  actress  beside  me  wondered  what  had  happened 
—  what  I  had  forgotten !  No  fly  enmeshed  in  spider's 
web  was  ever  held  more  helplessly  than  I  was  held  for 
a  moment's  time  by  that  devilish  face,  leaning  from  tlie 


168  A  Silent  Singer 

shadow  of  the  curtained  box.  Strained  and  eager,  it 
was  white  as  chalk.  The  lips  were  parted — the  nostrils 
quivering — while  her  thunderous  brows  frowned  fiercely 
above  the  cruel  eyes  that  held  me  I  And  while  I  looked, 
so  surely  as  ever  Murder  raised  its  head  to  look  through 
human  eyes,  so  surely  Murder  triumphant  looked  at  me 
through  hers! 

The  actress  at  my  side  made  a  faint  movement; 
the  spell  was  broken  !  I  gave  the  shuddering  cry 
that  belonged  to  the  situation,  and  raising  the  glass 
to  my  own  lips,  quickly  swallowed  the  poison,  and  at 
the  very  moment  of  so  doing,  from  the  private  box,  low, 
but  perfectly  distinct,  came  the  contemptuous  words  : 
"You  fool!  You  fool!" 

I  went  on  with  my  scene  and  ended  the  play. 

At  the  end  no  sign  of  approbation  came  from  the 
private  box.  With  some  irritation,  I  asked  myself  if 
she  expected  me  to  change  the  action  of  a  play  to 
gratify  her  savage  taste  ? 

The  box  was  what  is  called  a  "  stage-box,"  and  it  is 
generally  held  by  the  manager  for  his  family,  or  for 
visiting  artists,  as  it  is  apt  to  open  just  inside  the  stage 
door.  As  I  approached,  I  saw  the  box  door  open. 
Two  or  three  steps  led  up  to  it.  At  the  foot  of  them 
stood  the  young  lady  who  had  told  me  the  story,  and 

who  was  the  hostess  of  Madame  de  B .  She  saw  me 

and  called :  "  Madame  wishes  to  see  you  !  " 

Madame  de  B looked  her  name — Miriam — as 

she  stood  there.  Her  stately  figure  was  so  beautiful,  her 


"In  Paris  Suddenly "  169 

face  so  calm  and  handsome — but  I  shrank  from  her 
now ;  I  could  not  forget  the  face  I  had  seen  but  a  few 
moments  ago.  She  stood  at  the  top  of  the  steps;  I  was 
one  step  lower,  while  her  young  hostess  waited  at  the 
door.  She  did  not  speak.  I  noted  the  elegance  of  her 
gown,  and  followed  the  movement  of  her  white, 
ungloved  hands  as  she  raised  some  black  lace  to  drape 
about  her  head  and  shoulders — Spanish  fashion — and 
so  I  met  her  eyes,  and  instantly  there  was  neither 
theatre  nor  hostess — there  was  nothing — there  was  no 
one,  but  just  she  and  I.  I  set  my  teeth  hard  and  bore 
her  look.  A  hot  flush  swept  over  me,  then  I  felt  my 
eyebrows  lifting  of  their  own  accord,  a  faint  chill 
crept  slowly  about  the  roots  of  my  hair,  and  presently 
I  saw  the  evil,  hot  light  glowing  in  her  eyes  again,  and 
dreading  the  coming  of  what  I  had  seen  there  before, 
I  spoke  suddenly,  imploringly,  and  said :  "  O  Mad 
ame,  was  he  dead,  or  was  he  alive,  when  you  found  him?" 

Her  lips  drew  back  in  silent  laughter,  her  eyes 
danced  in  burning  triumph :  "  Alive  I  Alive!!  Poor, 
little  fool !  Alive  !  !  "  and  then  she  leaned  over  me,  and 
gripping  me  hard  upon  the  shoulders,  she  looked  deep 
down  into  my  eyes,  and  then  she  said  slowly,  with  the 
devil  in  her  face  :  "  I — wonder — what — became — of — 
that— devoted— valet  ?  " 

She  laughed  aloud,  turned  suddenly  to  gather  up 
her  skirt,  and  I  threw  out  my  hand  and  felt  my  way 
by  the  wall,  down  the  steps,  and  so  into  my  own  dress 
ing  room,  where  I  burst  into  wild  sobbing. 


170  A  Silent  Singer 

Two  or  three  nights  passed,  and  then  my  friend 

remarked  that  dear,  handsome  Madame  de  B had 

sailed  again. 

"  It  was  funny,  she  said,  "  the  idea  of  asking  you  to 
come  to  her  box,  and  then  never  opening  her  lips  to 
you,  wasn't  it  ?  " 

I  looked  stupidly  at  her:  "Why,  what  do  you 
mean  ?  "  I  asked.  "  You  stood  in  the  door  all  the 
time — you  must  have  heard  her  speaking  ?  " 

"  Why,  she  never  opened  her  lips — except  when  she 
laughed,  as  you  went  out !  " 

I  was  sorely  puzzled — until  perhaps  a  week  after — 
apropos  of  nothing,  my  little  chatter-box  remarked: 

"  You  know  poor  Madame  de  B .was  one  of  Count  de 

Varney's  nurses  at  the  very  first  of  their  acquaintance. 
He  was  a  victim  of  insomnia.  A  doctor  called  the 
Count's  attention  to  her.  She  used  to  make  him  sleep, 
sometimes  even  against  his  will.  The  doctor  said  she 
had  most  unusual  mesmeric  power." 

We  never  spoke  again  of  Madame  de  B— — ,  but 
sometimes  on  an  autumn  night,  dark  and  chill,  with  the 
rain  falling  stealthily  on  the  sodden  leaves  that  give  forth 
no  rustle  when  a  cautious  foot  presses  them,  I  have 
caught  myself  repeating  those  ominous  words  :  "  I— 
wonder — what — became — of — that — devoted — valet  ?  " 
But  now  to  that  query  there  can  be  but  one  answer : 
"  In  Paris  suddenly,  Madame  de  B ." 


Two  Buds. 


Two  Buds 

"There  is  no  poetry  in  life  to-day !"  We  were  walk 
ing  down  Euclid  Avenue,  and  my  friend  had  been 
expressing  her  hot  disapproval  of  many  things  in  this 
really  excellent  world  of  ours,  ending  with  that  youth 
fully  positive  assertion :  "  There  is  no  poetry  in  life 
to-day!" 

I  mildly  suggested  that  she  might  not  recognize  it  as 
poetry,  if  she  saw  it,  as  poems  were  not  always  bound 
in  white  and  silver  nor  yet  in  blue  and  gold — some, 
indeed,  never  reaching  the  honor  (?)  of  binding  at  all. 

By  the  fierceness  of  her  contempt  for  the  opinion  of 
another,  one  could  easily  measure  her  utter  inexperi 
ence,  but  she  finally  closed  her  address  by  haughtily 
informing  me  that  she  was  not  to  be  deceived  by 
"  bindings  " — that  all  poetry  was  sacred  to  her,  whether 
she  found  it  in  the  polished,  metrical  form  of  verse,  or 
simply  expressing  itself  in  human  action — but  in  these 
days  there  was  no  poetry — conscious  or  unconscious — 
for — she  got  no  further  ;  my  fingers  were  on  her  wrist 
in  that  unintentionally  savage  clutch  that  never  fails  to 
secure  immediate  attention  and  later  remembrance — 
and  I  was  whispering:  "Look!  Look  well!  at  the  old 
man  approaching!" 

I'm  sure,  though,  she  needed  no  such  reminder — no 
one  could  help  looking  at  him — and,  at  first  glance, 
only  his  snowy  hair  kept  the  laugh  from  one's  lips.  A 


174  A  Silent  Singer 

well-grown  boy  of  twelve  would  have  been  "  mad  as  a 
hopper  "  if  he  had  not  stood,  at  least,  even  in  height 
with  this  old,  old  man.  His  gait  was  half-trot,  half- 
shuffling  walk,  and  his  speed  remarkable — but  little  as 
he  was,  he  leant  forward  in  a  peculiar  way.  His  nation 
ality,  after  fifty-five  unbroken  years  in  America,  was 
stamped  so  clearly  on  face  and  figure  that  his  tongue's 
thick,  disobedient  English  was  not  needed  to  proclaim 
him  an  ancient  Dutchman.  His  garments  would  have 
wrung  laughter  from  a  telegraph  pole — the  saddest 
thing  on  earth.  That  his  wife  made  his  trousers  there 
could  be  no  doubt,  for  if  you  looked  at  them  only,  you 
could  never  tell  which  way  the  man  was  going  to  walk. 
Then,  short  as  his  little  legs  were,  his  trouser-legs  were 
still  shorter,  while  he  could  have  stowed  away  quite  a 
nice,  little  outfit  in  that  portion  of  them  known  as  the 
"  slack."  This  breadth  of  beam  and  shortness  of  keel 
gave  to  the  public  gaze  a  generous  margin  of  clean, 
white  stocking.  His  collar,  which  was  an  integral  part 
of  his  shirt — and  not,  to  use  his  own  words,  "  a  flimsy- 
flamsy  yump-a-bout-ting  what  wont  stay  hitched  !"- 
was  of  immaculate  whiteness,  but  utterly  innocent  of 
starch,  and  on  his  venerable  head  he  wore  an  antique, 
upanama"  hat.  A  Dutch  friend,  who  cultivated 
coffee,  had  picked  this  "panama"  in  Java,  when  it  was 
green — so  to  speak — and  sent  it  here,  and  the  older 
citizens  had,  for  twenty-odd  years,  watched  its  slow 
ripening  under  the  American  sun — and  in  its  wearer's 
eyes  it  had  just  reached  its  prime.  Before  the  quaint, 


Two  Buds  175 

little  body  reached  us,  I  whispered:  "It  is  not  poverty 
that  makes  him  dress  like  that — he  owns  the  big 
'Buckeye  Block,'  besides  his  dwelling-house  up  town, 
and  I  saw  her  eye  renew  its  slackening  hold  on  him,  so 
great  is  our  unconscious  deference  to  money  that  already 
he  seemed  less  grotesque  to  her,  because  she  saw  him 
through  the  softening,  yellow  light  his  gold  cast  upon 
him — and  then  he  dragged  off  his  well-ripened  "  pan- 
ama,"  and  stopped  to  tell  me  "youst  how  glad  vas 
he  to  see  me!" 

For  he  had  entered  this  country  j-less,  and 
j-less  he  remained,  using  y  in  place  of  j  with  such 
smiling  confidence  that  it  was  "  all  right  "  that  no 
one  had  the  heart  to  sternly  put  him  in  the  wrong  by 
correcting  him.  My  wise,  young  friend  smiled  quite 
brightly  upon  him,  and  when  he  had  passed,  demanded 
of  me  all  I  knew  about  him,  "because  he  was  such  a 
dear — and  so  individual — you  know!" 

I  assured  her  there  was  nothing  to  tell — that  he  was 
simply  an  ignorant  but  honest  man,  who  by  the  hardest 
work  and  almost  incredible  economy  had  risen  to 
wealth,  and  she  surprised  me  by  replying  "  that  there 
was  more  than  that  in  his  face,  even  for  her,  a  stranger, 
to  see — and  what  was  the  secret  of  the  almost  child 
like  gentleness  of  his  clear,  blue  eyes?" 

Whereupon,  we  lunched  in  a  quiet  corner  of  a  quiet 
room  and  over  many — too  many — cups  of  coffee,  I  told 
her  that  his  name  was  Knights — Jacobus  Knights — 
and  I  had  made  his  acquaintance  while  I  was  still  so 


176  A  Silent  Singer 

young  that  the  salient  features  of  my  own  personality 
were  the  length  of  my  braids  and  the  whiteness  of  my 
aprons.  He  used  to  rear  vegetables  and  then  sell  them 
from  a  cart,  which  he  pushed  when  it  was  full  and 
dragged  when  it  was  empty.  Being  sent  after  him  one 
day  by  a  lady,  I  called  out  lustily :  "  Boy — boy — you 
boy!  Stop — stop — I  say!"  thus  making  the  mistake 
that  many  an  older  and  wiser  person  made  daily,  and 
one  that  was  greatly  facilitated  by  the  tailless  jacket 
and  flat  cap  the  little  man  wore.  Really,  it  savored 
of  the  uncanny  to  thus  address  a  question  to  the  back 
of  childhood  and  receive  your  answer  from  the  unshaven 
lip  of  maturity.  He  seemed  to  be  quite  used  to  the 
error,  and  only  laughed  and  said:  "  Dat  is  noddings — 
youst  noddings  at  all !  Whad  I  make  mit  you — onion — 
squash — eh,  whad  now  ?" 

Two  years  later  I  came  to  live  on  S street,  and 

right  opposite,  little  Mr.  Knights  had  his  little  play 
house  of  a  home,  his  doll  of  a  blond  baby,  and  his  tre 
mendous  wife.  No,  her  size  was  not  the  result  of  com 
parison,  she  was  really  a  tremendously  big  woman,  from 
whose  deep  chest  and  strong,  column-like  throat  there 
issued  the  thin,  little  voice  of  a  complaining,  "cheeping  " 
chick  too  weak  to  break  its  imprisoning  shell.  She 
was  a  spring  of  pure  Dutch  undefiled.  Not  one  Eng 
lish  sentence  could  she  command,  but  she  was  a  friendly 
creature,  and  hobnobbed  deprecatingly  but  successfully 
with  her  neighbors  through  the  medium  of  a  ponder 
ous  but  expressive  and  ever-smiling  pantomime. 


Two  Buds  177 

Never  were  such  workers  known  before.  I  doubt  if 
they  could  have  recognized  their  own  breakfast  had  they 
met  it,  by  daylight.  Certainly  they  had,  for  at  least 
forty  years,  taken  that  meal  by  artificial  light — candle 
or  oil,  whichever  was  the  cheaper.  Any  morning 
between  half-past  four  and  five  o'clock  the  neighbors 
cotdd  see,  through  the  dim  light,  a  pretty  little  incident. 
The  cart,  heavily  laden,  stood  outside  the  gate;  the  small 
pedler  with  the  boy-body  and  the  man-face,  with  a 
broad,  leather  band  or  collar  across  his  neck,  hooked  its 
ends  to  the  shafts  of  the  cart,  thus  placing  on  his 
shoulders  part  of  the  heavy  weight  and  at  the  same 
time  causing  the  curious  forward  bend  of  body  that 
disfigured  his  walk  to-day.  When  he  was  quite  ready 
for  his  start,  the  door  opened  and  the  big  woman 
appeared,  holding  in  her  brown  arms  a  little,  night- 
gowned  figure,  its  bare,  pink  feet  curled  up  in  her  one 
broad  hand — baby  dreams  still  lingering  mistily  in  the 
sleepy,  blue  eyes,  and  while  one  wee  hand  pushed  back 
impatiently  the  blond  tangle  of  curls,  the  other  one 
tossed  uncounted  kisses  to  the  father  dimly  seen,  while 
a  sweet,  bird-like  voice  cried :  "  Bye-bye,  Papa  !  Bye- 
bye  !  Ick  lief  dy !  Bye-bye !  " 

For  this  little  one  had  the  gift  of  tongues,  and  from 
babyhood  Dutch  and  English  were  simply  convertible 
terms  with  her — and  the  adoring  father,  with  cap  off,  stood 
and  smiled,  and  smiled,  and  waved  his  earth-stained, 
stumpy  hand,  and  blessed  her  with  all  the  tender  Dutch 
blessings  that  he  knew,  and  then  put  on  his  cap — took 


178  A  Silent  Singer 

up  his  load  and  started  on  the  way  that  would  have  been 
so  hard,  so  ugly,  but  for  those  baby  kisses  that  bloomed 
like  flowers  on  his  path  and  sweetened  all  his  day. 
When  he  had  gone  quite  out  of  sight  the  little  Rosie 
was  returned  to  the  great,  Dutch  bed  to  complete  her 
sleep,  and  in  a  few  moments  the  mother  was  crouching 
between  the  rows  of  vegetables,  looking  like  a  monster 
toad,  and  was  weeding — weeding — weeding,  until  with 
almost  breaking  back  she  began  to  carry  water  and 
sprinkle — sprinkle — sprinkle,  and  after  that  the  house 
hold  tasks  of  other  women  began — washing — scrubbing 
—  ironing — baking,  yet  always  and  ever  with  it  all, 
there  were  little,  white  garments  for  Rosie,  and  time  to 
put  them  on,  and  when  the  child  outgrew  the  vegetable 
basket  she  had  passed  a  great  part  of  her  life  in,  play 
ing  with  a  few  marigolds  or  a  hollyhock  flower — she 
could  not  have  salable  ones  like  mignonette  or  pinks 
— the  mother  feared  many  things — for,  as  "Little 
Knights  "  (that  was  what  the  neighbors  called  him), 
explained  in  slow,  back-end-first  sentences,  the  vegetable 
basket  arrangement  had  been  very  satisfactory  to  both 
parties,  and  his  wife  could  plant  or  hoe  or  weed  without 
anxiety,  having  simply  to  put  out  her  hand  now  and 
then  and  pull  the  basket  after  her.  But  now  that  was 
all  past,  and  his  wife  was  "  full  up  mit  dem  fears/'  and 
when  questioned  as  to  the  nature  of  the  fears  that  were 
filling  her  up,  his  blue  eyes  seemed  both  surprised  and 
reproachful  that  they  could  not  see  for  themselves  the 
possible  dangers  in  small  Rosie's  path.  "  In  place  of 


Two  Buds  179 

first,"  he  explained,  "der  was  de  cleanness — she  mighd 
get  dirty  de  garden  in  !  Den,"  his  eyes  grew  round  at 
that,  "  der  vas  de  red-peppers — she  might  touch  dem 
and  after  vards  i  up  her  sveet  eyes !  "  but  when  at  the 
end  of  a  long  list  of  possibilities,  he  cried  out :  u  Unt 
dem  pees — dem  honey  pees — what  pite  mit  dere  tails — 
suppose  dey  make  mit  dere  stingers  on  her  ?  Ach  Gott ! 
Ach  Gott !  "  and,  caught  in  a  linguistic  tangle,  he  fell 
into  deep  Dutch,  from  which  he  emerged  breathless  and 
excited.  Now  that  is  a  condition  no  Dutchman  will 
endure,  so  without  apology,  he  trotted  off  home  to  soothe 
himself  with  the  one  smoke  he  allowed  himself  each  day, 
and  then  to — rest  ?  Oh,  no,  there  was  much  work  done 
in  that  small  house  by  night  as  well  as  by  day — 
and  mind,  there  are  old  neighbors  still  to  support 
this  statement  —  they  used  actually  to  work  in 
the  garden  by  moonlight  —  not  habitually,  but 
often  enough,  Heaven  knows !  And  what  was  the 
object  of  all  this  ceaseless  labor — of  their  astonishing 
economies  ? 

Before  the  coming  of  their  baby  girl,  they  had  been 
little  more  than  two  patient,  dumb  beasts  of  burden. 
Born  and  bred  to  work — they  worked — but  dully — 
without  hope  or  special  object — but  when  God  had  sent 
into  their  lives  that  laughing,  pretty  thing,  and  formed 
her  delicately  that  she  might  arouse  their  tenderness, 
they  had  changed.  They  looked  at  one  another,  and 
each,  smiling,  saw  the  other  anew.  They  dreamed  for 
her — they  hoped  now  for  her — they  prayed  now  heavy, 


180  A  Silent  Singer 

laborious,  loving  prayers  for  her.  Truly  she  had  been 
the  "  locust  and  wild  honey  "  that  fed  them  in  their 
wilderness  —so  now  it  was  for  her  they  labored  and  were 
therefore  never  tired. 

As  the  years  passed  I,  who  had  long  since  ceased  to 

live  in  S street,  often  went  there  to  visit  my  friends 

who  had  remained,  stopping  with  them  from  Saturday 
till  Monday,  and  these  visits  kept  me  still  in  touch  with 
"  Little  Knights  "  and  his  idol.  It  seemed  strange  that 
Rosie  was  quite  unspoiled  by  so  much  adulation.  She 
was  a  favorite  with  all  the  neighbors,  was  polite  and 
obedient  outside  her  own  domain,  while  within  it,  an 
absolute  monarch,  she  ruled  with  gentlest  strength  her 
idolatrous  subjects.  Derision  or  contempt  shown  to 
them  was  swiftly  and  sharply  resented  by  her,  while  the 
only  time  she  had  to  sternly  exert  her  authority  was 
when  she  made  some  demand  upon  the  treasury  that  was 
for  their  benefit  instead  of  hers. 

The  Knights'  Sunday  went  like  this :  When  it  was 
time  for  Sunday-school  the  front  door  opened  (mind 
you,  in  any  other  family  of  like  position  in  life,  that 
door  would  have  opened  for  only  one  of  three  things — 
a  wedding,  a  funeral,  or  the  first  visit  of  the  clergy 
man,  so  think  how  they  honored  that  mere  child) — then 
big  Mrs.  Knights  appeared  and  brushed  the  step  over 
with  a  cloth  and  retired  from  view  (a  pause),  then  little 
Rosie  appeared,  balancing  a  moment  on  the  step  like 
one  of  her  own  pet,  white  doves,  her  many  short  skirts 
and  her  white  dress  starched  to  the  uttermost  limit  of 


Two  Buds  181 

rattling  stiffness,  open-work  white  stockings  and  black 
slippers,  with  an  ankle  strap  fastened  with  a  gold  but- 
ton,  a  broad,  pink  sash  about  her  waist,  pink  ribbon 
bows  on  each  long,  blond  braid,  a  big  leghorn  hat 
secured  first  by  an  elastic  band,  and  over  that  by  broad, 
pink  ribbons  tied  in  a  large  bow  under  her  milk-white 
chin.  In  her  little,  mitted  hands  she  held  a  testament, 
and  from  between  its  leaves  peeped  a  pink  or  a  rose — 
a  handkerchief  the  size  of  a  large  postage  stamp  fin 
ished  her  outfit — and  so,  gravely  and  with  great  pro 
priety,  she  came  down  the  narrow  path  between  the 
uflox"  and  "  sweet-william,"  the  "larkspur"  and  ufour 
o'clocks,"  and  all  the  horde  of  strong-growing,  free- 
blooming  flowers  of  the  poor — herself  the  daintiest 
flower  of  them  all — and  at  the  gate  she  turned  and 
kissed  her  hand  to  the  two  heads  thrust  out  at  either 
side  of  the  door — the  fresh-shaven  face  of  her  father 
low  down  on  one  side,  the  broad-smiling  face  of  her 
mother  high  up  on  the  other — then  walked  sedately 
on  towards  the  church,  while  behind  her,  the  heads 
gone,  the  door  closed,  seemingly  of  its  own  volition — to 
open  no  more  until  the  next  week. 

A  few  minutes  later  Mrs.  Knights  appeared  at  the 
side  door  where  there  was  a  tiny,  tiny  little  platform, 
with  "  scarlet-beans  "  trained  thickly  over  its  morsel  of 
roof.  On  this  porch  one  chair  was  carefully  placed  on 
Sunday  mornings  and  occupied  by  Mrs.  Knights, 
arrayed  in  a  white  petticoat  and  white  bedgown  (as 
the  short,  loose  garment  was  called).  Her  hair  was 


182  A  Silent  Singer 

oiled  and  brushed  to  a  glassy  smoothness,  a  big  horn- 
comb  loomed  high  above  her  head,  and  a  pair  of  gold 
ear-drops,  that  seemed  to  have  been  sold  by  the  yard, 
dangled  from  her  ears.  Her  tired,  old  feet  rested  in  a 
Hugh  pair  of  braided  list  shoes  that  looked  liked  boats. 
Once  seated,  "Little  Knights"  trotted  out  with  a  Bible 
of  a  size  so  prodigious  one  wondered  how  it  ever  found 
a  resting  place  inside  that  little  bit  of  a  house.  Its 
mighty  clasps  undone,  he  placed  it  on  his  wife's  lap, 
and  then  made  another  trip  and  brought  out  a  great 
pair  of  spectacles,  framed  in  silver,  which  he  solemnly 
fitted  on  her  nose,  then  most  carefully  and  cautiously 
he  adapted  himself  to  such  narrow  margin  of  floor 
space  as  was  left  for  him,  and  their  service  began. 

It  was  with  a  rather  wavering,  quavering  render 
ing  of  an  old  hymn,  after  which  Mrs.  Knights  opened 
the  book,  and  looking  over  the  tops  of  her  glasses — she 
could  not  see  a  word  through  them,  but  she  felt  they 
loaned  her  a  certain  dignity  as  of  office — she  found  the 
place,  and  by  the  aid  of  one  blunt  finger  (its  stained, 
cracked  nail  worn  down  to  the  very  quick),  she  made 
her  way  with  pathetic  slowness  across  the  page  of 
frenzied  Dutch  print.  Not  that  they  doubted  the 
saving-power  of  the  English  Bible  for  the  English  and 
incidentially  for  the  American  sinner,  but  they  felt 
that  their  own  sins  were  so  peculiarly  Dutch  in  quality 
that  nothing  short  of  a  Dutch  Bible  could  save  them. 
Wherefore,  Mrs.  Knights,  each  Sunday,  with  blunt 
fore-finger  seemed  to  dig  out  words  of  Holy-writ  from 


Two  Buds  183 

the  great  book,  while  her  small  husband  carefully  stored 
them  in  the  basket  of  his  memory. 

After  the  chapter  had  come  to  its  laborious  close, 
they  both  took  breath  and  wiped  their  dripping  brows, 
then  clasped  their  hands,  bowed  their  heads  and  offered 
each  a  silent  prayer.  I  had  once  come  upon  them  so, 
the  bees  circling  about  their  gray,  old  heads,  while  their 
prayers,  like  the  perfume  of  two  souls  mingling  with 
the  perfume  of  the  flowers,  rose  through  the  warm 
air,  straight  to  that  great  God  who  had  given  them 
Rosie. 

And  that  sweet  name  encompassed  all  of  good  his 
life  contained — health  and  strength,  growing  wealth 
and  the  respect  in  which  his  neighbors  held  him,  and 
when  he  would  have  offered  humble  thanks  for  them, 
instead  he  blessed  God  for  Rosie. 

With  a  slight  trace  of  that  peasant  cunning  which 
had  been  his  when  the  stocking-foot  had  been  his  only 
bank,  he  tried  to  hide,  as  far  as  possible,  his  increasing 
prosperity.  He  had  long  owned  the  double  lot  and 
the  toy  house  that  made  home  for  him,  and  it  was  whis 
pered  that  certain  lots  on  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  used 
by  "  Little  Knights  "  for  a  truck-garden,  were  really 
his,  though  the  wily  Jacobus  often,  perhaps  too  often, 
referred  to  the  fact :  "  Dat  he  had  paid  de  rent  dem 
gartens  of !  "  However,  the  old  neighbors  to  this  day 
tell  a  story  of  "  Little  Knights  "  touching  upon  his 
secretiveness  about  money. 

Rosie,  who,  by  the  way  was  Rosie  to  all  the  world 


184  A  Silent  Singer 

except  her  father — he  called  her  ever  and  always  his 
Rose  or  his  " Little  Rose;  "  in  babyhood,  or  in  woman 
hood,  "  My  Rose "  was  the  name  he  gave  his  idol ! 
When  his  Rose  had  reached  the  age  of  fourteen,  she 
stood  before  him  one  evening,  holding  a  match  to  his 
pipe,  and  when  the  tobacco  glowed  evenly  all  over, 
she  shut  down  the  perforated  silver  cover,  and  said 
suddenly :  "  Father,  I  wonder  if  you  can  be  rich 
enough  to  buy  me  something,  an  expensive  something, 
too,  father  ?  "  and  the  old  eyes  had  fairly  danced,  and 
surely  in  that  moment,  Jacobus  Knights  tasted  all  the 
sweetness  of  prosperity.  Yet,  Jacobus  was  a  Dutch 
man,  and  therefore  cautious,  and  so  assuming  as  much 
doubt  as  was  possible  over  so  absolutely  certain  a 
matter,  he  inquired  as  to  the  nature  of  "  dis  ting 
vat  made  such  expense  mit  itself,"  and  Rosie,  with 
clear  eyes  on  his  face,  had  answered  with  a  little 
tremble  of  anxiety  in  her  voice :  "A  piano,  father." 

And  the  small  father  had  crushed  back  a  smile,  and 
averted  joyous  eyes,  and  had  basely  suggested  that  an 
accordeon  "  might  answer  youst  as  well." 

But  clever  Rosie  noticed  he  said  no  word  about  not 
affording  it,  so  she  instantly  assumed  a  patient  look  of 
endurance,  saying :  "  No  father,  an  accordeon  will  not 
do  ;  but  never  mind,  I  see  you  are  not  rich  enough  yet, 
I  can  wait ! "  and  he  had  hastily  broken  in  on  this 
meekness  with :  "  You  see,  you  see,  youst  noddings,  my 
Rose!  How  many  dimes  a  hunnert  tollars,  makes 
dem  bianos  mit  demselves,  all  mit  der  india-rupper 


Two  Buds  185 

overcoats  on  'em,  too,  unt  lots  of  dat  moosic  pieces 
sphilt  all  de  top  over  ?  All — youst  all  de  nice  hair- 
horse  biano  stools,  too,  vat  twist  round  unt  round,  and 
make  you  sick  mit  yourself — every  ting  vat  goes  dat  biano 
mit  ?  Dat  is,  vat  I  come  rich  enough  to  give  mit  my 
Rose!" 

But  imagine  the  stupefaction  of  every  soul  who  knew 
"Little  Knights,"  when  two  weeks  later,  without  a  word 
of  his  intentions  to  anyone,  he  sent  men  to  lay  the  foun 
dation  of  a  new  house  on  the  next-door  lot,  which  was 
vacant ;  and  to  the  excited  inquiries  of  his  neighbors  he 
naively  replied,  between  puffs  of  smoke  :  "  Veil,  you 
see  now,  my  Rose,  she  vant  dat  biano,  unt — (pause) — 
unt  I  have  to  make  first  de  house  to  put  him  in — don't 
you  see  mit  me  ?  "  And  the  laugh  that  followed  rolled 
around  the  town  and  made  him  known  far  and  wide  as 
the  little,  Dutch  gardener  who  built  a  house  for  his 
daughter's  piano. 

A  few  more  prosperous  years  and  "  Little  Knights/' 
who  began  to  be  called  "Little  Old  Knights"  now,  was 
watching,  with  proud  eyes,  the  growing  train  of  Rosie's 
lovers.  She  was  a  charming  girl — clever,  well-read,  an 
excellent  musician,  a  perfect  little  housekeeper,  and, 
best  of  all,  tenderly,  bravely  loyal  to  her  big,  illiterate 
mother  and  her  short-cut,  old  father. 

She  was  a  milk-white  blond — a  silvery,  flaxen  blond, 
and  though  tints  of  mauve  and  clear,  pure  blue  found 
favor  in  her  eyes,  she  still  wore  pink  for  her  old  father's 
sake.  He  had  used  to  say  of  her  in  baby  days  :  "  My 


186  A  Silent  Singer 

Kose  is  such  a  vite,  liddle  Eose — I  like  dat  she  be  tied 
up  pink  ribbons  mit — alvays  mit  pink !  "  So  now,  tied 
up  "  mit  pink,"  she  received  her  young  friends  in  that 
one-time  "holy  of  holies"  —the  front  room;  now 
termed  parlor.  With  a  sort  of  anguished  pride  big 
Mrs.  Knights  saw.sunlight  streaming  through  only  thin 
lace  curtains  across  the  new  carpet — saw  other  books 
than  the  Bible  and  family  album  there — saw  flowers  and 
open  piano,  and  oh — oh — the  chairs  all  pulled  out  from 
their  nice,  straight  rows  against  the  wall !  But  then — 
ach  Gott !  Rosie  knew !  And  the  ringing  of  the  door 
bell  was  as  music  in  the  ears  of  the  doting,  old  pair 
who  sat  in  the  inner  room — one  knitting,  the  other 
smoking — both  nodding  and  smiling  and  putting  severe 
restraint  upon  themselves  to  keep  from  rushing  in  with 
refreshments  before  greetings  were  hardly  over. 

That  moment  of  offering  refreshments  was  a  moment 
of  joy  and  of  torture.  They  would  willingly  have 
effaced  themselves  from  the  life  of  their  "  American  " 
daughter  (as  they  proudly  called  her),  but  she  had  neither 
friend  nor  acquaintance  who  did  not  know — and  through 
her  introduction — her  father  and  mother.  With  regard 
to  the  latter,  Rosie  had  worked  a  miracle.  In  two  years' 
time,  by  faithful  and  almost  desperate  effort,  she  had 
taught  her  mother  nine  simple  English  words.  They 
were  evidently  selected  by  the  astute  Rosie  with  a  view 
to  future  social  requirements.  So  now  Mrs.  Knights 
could,  with  portentous  gasps  and  moistening  brow,  say : 
"  How  do-do  ?  "  "  Com'  again !  "  "  Good-bye !  "  "Ver' 


Two  Buda  187 

glad  !  "  "  Ver'  sorry  !  "  and  "  My  !  "  And  when  the 
moment  came  for  the  long-necked  bottles  of  sparkling 
German  wine — the  fruit — -the  sandwiches — the  cream- 
cheese,  etc.,  to  appear,  the  old  pair,  rejoicing  in  their 
hospitality,  swelling  with  pride  in  Rosie  and  Rosie's 
popularity,  yet  nearly  crushed  by  embarrassment, 
appeared,  too.  And  Mrs.  Knights — "  How  do-do  ?  " 
all  round — wilted  into  a  big  chair  in  the  corner,  from 
whence  she  smiled  most  happily  and  cast  a  "  My  !  "  of 
excellent  pronunciation  into  the  general  conversation 
now  and  then,  for  which  her  Rosie  gave  her  a  dozen 
kisses  afterward. 

The  bright,  laughing  girl  saw  that  her  father  had  the 
prettiest  visitor  in  the  room  to  sit  by,  and  that  her  own 
choice  of  the  young  men  should  wait  upon  her  mother, 
and  so,  with  wonderful  tact,  she  led  them  into  her 
brighter  life,  instead  of  shutting  them  out  into  the 
shamed  solitude  known  to  so  many  lowly  parents. 
Rosie  was  nineteen  when  she  made  her  choice.  Young 
Randall  had  been  a  child  of  wealth  until,  at  twenty, 
his  father  tried  to  "  corner  "  something  and  had  been 
cornered  himself  and  ruined.  Then  the  boy  went  to 
work  and  had  been  working  for  six  years  when  he  fell 
in  love  with  Rosie.  Never  had  there  been  such  excite 
ment  in  a  Dutchman's  life  before  !  Little  Old  Knights 
was  a  house-building,  present-buying,  hand-rubbing, 
amiable,  little  lunatic !  His  wife  smiled  in  her  very 
sleep  at  night,  and  lived  in  her  Dutch  receipt-book  all 
day,  while  Rosie  had  to  watch  the  pair  with  the  eyes  of 


188  A  Silent  Singer 

an  affectionate  lynx  to  prevent  them  from  buying  horse 
hair  furniture  for  her  future  parlor,  and  large  chunks  of 
amethyst  or  big,  diamond-set  things  for  ornaments. 

But  she  managed  so  well  that  only  a  few  atrocities 
crept  in  among  her  gifts,  and  her  little  home  was  charm 
ing.  Many  thought  that  now,  as  Rosie  entertained  a 
good  deal  and  had  new  friends  in  her  new  home,  she 
would  ignore  the  old  folks.  Not  she  !  Whenever  she 
had  anything  "on,"  from  a  "coffee-drinking"  to  an 
"evening  party,"  she  flew  down  to  the  old  home  and 
laced  her  mother  into  shape,  crowding  her  into  a  stiff, 
silk  gown,  that  creaked  at  each  labored  breath  of  its 
wearer,  and  when  she  was  in  full  panoply  of  war,  and 
Little  Old  Knights  had  been  turned  about  and  looked 
over  as  if  he  were  a  boy  getting  ready  for  Sunday-school, 
Rosie  kissed  them  both  and  took  them  off  to  her  own 
home,  and  set  them  down  in  two  big  chairs  with  a  little 
table  between  them,  for  their  spectacles  and  handker 
chiefs  and  other  small  belongings — and  there,  like  an  old 
pair  of  children,  they  sat  and  enjoyed  all  that  went  on ; 
and  when  there  was  dancing,  "  Old  Knights "  never 
failed  to  indulge  in  one  waltz  with  his  ancient  wife — 
the  memory  of  whose  youth  must  have  gone  into  her 
feet  to  make  her  so  light  on  them  still.  And  while 
Rosie  joined  in  the  laughter  this  waltz  always  aroused, 
there  would  be  a  tremor  in  her  voice  and  she  would 
hold  her  young  husband's  hand  close  and  whisper : 
"  Will  you  love  me  like  that,  Hal,  when  I  have  grown 
old?" 


Two  Buds  189 

So  on  radiant  wings  time  flew  by,  until  one  morning 
neighbors  heard  laughing  in  "Little  Knights'"  garden 
— laughing  that  continued  and  continued,  and  when  they 
went  over,  "  Little  Knights  "  was  doing  the  laughing, 
with  tears  running  down  his  cheeks  and  falling  on  the 
prodigious  Bible  open  on  his  short  knees.  When  ques 
tioned,  he  exclaimed  :  "  She  has  kom' — all  safe,  she 
has  kom'  !  I  seen  her  mit  mine  eyes — I  have  tooched 
her  mit  dese  fingers  !  De  liddle  daughter  of  mine  own 
Rose !  Ach,  de  Almighty  Gott  is  a  most  goot  Gott !  " 
and  then  he  bowed  his  white  head  and  muttered  :  "  Now 
let  Thy  servant  depart  mit  peace !  "  And  so  poor, 
"Little  Old  Knights"  found  his  cup  of  joy  full  to  the 
brim ! 

And  what  happens  to  any  cup  held  in  human  hands 
if  filled  to  the  brim  ?  It  runs  over — and  there  is  cruel 
loss  !  And  so  it  came  to  pass  that  Rosie's  little  one 
stayed  with  them  just  long  enough  to  smile  a  recogni 
tion  of  her  girlish  mother's  face,  and  then  some  sweet, 
strong  call  came  from  the  "  beyond"  that  baby  had 
heard  and  answered — and  they  were  left  to  wonder  at 
the  awful  void  that  small  absence  made  in  all  their 
lives. 

Poor,  Old  Knights !  Tight  in  his  arms  he  held  the 
tiny,  coffined  dead — moaning  over  and  over:  "  My  lid- 
die  pud — my  Rose's  liddle  pud !  " — until  that  sad 
moment  when,  by  sheer  force,  they  took  the  wee,  dead 
thing  from  him,  to  hide  it  away  beneath  the  flowers  and 
the  grasses. 


190  A  Silent  Singer 

Time  passed  slowly  now.  Rosie,  very  gentle — very 
tender  of  others — was  sad,  so  sad.  That  was  not  natu 
ral  to  her — so  all  rejoiced  when  hope  once  more  shone 
in  her  face — and  all  was  thankful  when  Little  Old 
Knights  trotted  from  door  to  door  with  the  news  that 
his  Rose  had  "  anodder  liddle  daughter — so  like — ach 
Gott !  so  like  de  first — as  never  yet  dey  saw !  " 

Rosie's  joy  was  great,  but  it  was  not  the  laughing, 
unthinking  joy  of  other  days.  She  felt  anxieties  and 
fears.  She  dreaded  this  and  that,  but  her  silvery  blond 
baby  was  so  strong  and  well,  and  grew  so  fast,  and 
"  crowed  "  and  laughed,  and  romped  with  father  and 
grandfather,  and  stood  so  strong  upon  her  little  legs 
that  fears  had  to  give  way  to  confidence,  and  her  heart 
bounded  with  triumph  when  she  heard  the  baby  voice, 
cry  imperatively  ;  "  Ma — ma !  ma — ma !  " 

One  day  in  particular  Rosie  always  remembered — 
she  had  toiled  for  a  good  hour  at  training  baby  to  say : 
"  Pa — pa,"  when  the  father  had  come  from  the  office 
— and  when  he  came  the  baby  had  stretched  out  her 
arms  to  him,  looked  back  roguishly  at  Rosie,  and  then 
fairly  screamed :  "  Ma — ma  !  ma — ma ! "  and  they  had 
all  laughed  and  laughed !  Good  God !  how  easy  it  is 
for  a  baby  to  fill  a  happy  home  with  merriment !  And 
that  very  night  "  croup  "  had  clutched  with  murderous 
fingers  the  little  throat  that  was  used  to  swell  with 
laughter  as  a  bird's  throat  swells  with  song — and  dark 
ness  and  silence  came  upon  the  house. 

Little  Knights— poor,  broken,  Little  Knights — like  a 


Two  Buds  191 

small,  gray  shadow,  flitted  back  and  forth  between  the 
two  stricken  homes.  At  one  moment  he  had  blas 
phemed  in  his  misery.  His  Rose  had  been  lying  on  his 
breast  and  she  had  wrung  her  hands  and  lifted  her  tor 
tured  eyes  to  his  and  cried :  "  Father,  what  have  I 
done  ?  Think  back — think  hard !  What  wickedness 
did  I  do,  that  God  should  punish  me  so  cruelly  ?  Did 
I  lie  ?  Did  I  bear  false  witness  against  any  one  ?  Think 
father — think  for  me,  dear !  " 

And  then  he  had  lifted  up  his  voice  against  Almighty 
God  and  cursed  his  work — and  now  he  remembered  his 
words  and  shivered,  for,  with  creeping  horror,  he  felt 
that  there  was  something  approaching  him  more  terri 
ble  even  than  the  loss  of  the  second  little  bud  of  love 
and  hope — Rose  !  Rose — his  worshiped  Rose — who 
wept  not  — who  thought  no  more  for  others'  comforts 
— who  sat  motionless  for  long  hours  at  a  time,  had 
been  taken  possession  of  by  a  grotesquely  horrible  idea 
that  the  husband  she  loved  so  was  trying  to  put  her 
legally  away,  because  her  children  died!  And  she 
would  hold  his  hands  and  beg  piteously  that  he  should 
wait  for  her  to  die ! — that  she  would  not  be  long  about 
it  now !  And  the  poor  husband  would  kneel  at  her 
feet  and  pour  out  his  love  and  grief,  but  all  in  vain  ! 

Then  she  would  lay  her  head  on  "  Little  Knights'  " 
breast  and  tell  him  to  take  her  away  before  the  new 
wife  came  I  He  felt  what  was  coming,  and  believed 
his  blasphemy  had  brought  destruction  upon  her  when 
his  Rose  became  quite  mad  !  At  first  he  tried  to  take 


192  A  Silent  Singer 

his  life,  but  Mrs.  Knights  seemed  to  have  eyes  all  over 
— he  could  not  escape  them.  Then,  suddenly,  he  cast 
himself — helpless,  hopeless,  almost  heartbroken,  at  the 
"  Blessed  Feet,"  asking  nothing  for  himself,  but 
entreating  mercy  for  his  Kose ! — so  innocent,  so  good ! 
Bye  and  bye  he  ceased  to  bargain  with  the  Lord,  and 
bowed  his  head,  and  with  grief-shaken  voice,  said  sim 
ply:  "Thy  will,  not  mine,  O  Gott!"  and  straight  a 
gleam  of  sunlight  came  back  into  his  life.  Rose — his 
beloved  Rose — had  recovered  her  reason!  "Little 
Knights"  held  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  the  weary 
eyes  and  drooping  lips — and  blessed  God  for  her !  but 
knew  in  his  heart  he  would  never  again  see  his  white 
Rose  "tied  up  mit  pink  ribbons." 

And  time  goes  on  and  on,  and  Rose,  gentle,  kind,  a 
very  angel  of  mercy  to  the  poor,  devoted  to  her  hus 
band  and  her  parents — rarely  smiling — never  laughing 
— shivers  at  the  sight  of  a  blond  baby.  Four  years 
had  passed  after  her  second  loss,  and  her  silence  was 
deceiving  them  all.  I  think,  when  one  Sunday  in 
church  a  strange,  little,  restless  creature  in  her  pew 
crept  along  the  seat  and  put  its  baby  hand  on  hers,  and 
poor  Rosie  at  that  touch  had  fainted  dead  away,  after 
that  they  understood. 

One  day  I  saw  "Little  Knights  "  standing  uncov 
ered  at  the  side  of  two  tiny  graves.  A  small  white 
stone  at  their  head  had  carved  upon  it  two  rose-buds 
and  beneath,  three  words,  clear  and  plain :  "  Our  little 
buds !  "  I  murmured  the  words  half  aloud,  and  "  Little 


Two  Buds  193 

Knights,"  with  tears  on  his  cheeks,  said:  "Yays,  yays 
— youst  liddle  puds — but,  oh,  whad  sweet,  liddle  puds 
dey  were !  Gott  give  me  youst  von  Rose — full  bloomed 
unt  perfect — but  dese  puds  ?  No !  no  !  He  say  dey 
may  not  bloom  here !  " 

He  looked  up  into  the  clear,  far,  far  blue,  and 
smiled  and  nodded,  and  said,  very  low :  "  Oop  dere — I 
think  He  make  'em  bloom  out  full — dem  puds !  I  like 
I  can  see  dat !  I  don't  want  to  leaf  my  Rose — I  stay 
here  as  long  as  she  stay — but  I  vant  so  much  to  see  my 
liddle  puds  bloom !"  and  then  he  placed  on  each  wee 
grave  a  beautiful  rosebud,  and  trotted  away  home  to  his 
good,  old  wife  and  his  adored  Rosie ! 

"  Let  me  see,"  I  added,  "  this  is  Saturday — is  it  not? 
Well,  to-morrow,  before  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon, 

should  you  go  to  "W Cemetery,  you  would  see  the 

4  little  hop  o'  my  thumb'  I  pointed  out  to  you  a  while 
ago  come  trotting  in,  holding  two  beautiful,  exquisitely 
beautiful,  rosebuds  in  his  hand ;  would  see  him  make 
his  way  to  those  two  tiny  graves,  and  without  shame, 
fall  on  his  knees,  and  with  one  arm  stretched  across 
the  graves,  humbly  pray.  Then  kissing  both  buds,  he 
would  place  one  on  each  grave — then,  with  falling  tears, 
leave  the  cemetery — and  that  has  been  done  and  will 
be  done,  winter  as  well  as  summer,  by  this  poor,  faith 
ful  '  Little  Old  Knights.'  " 

I  glanced  at  my  companion  and  was  amazed  to  see  her 
eyes  were  brimming,  and  as  she  dashed  the  tears  away, 
the  shameless  little  turncoat  cried — "  And  do  you  now 


194  A  Silent  Singer 

tell  me  you  can't  see  poetry  in  life — when  you  have 
known  a  man  like  that?  Why,  there  is  all  the  poetry 
of  '  fatherhood '  right  before  your  eyes !" 

And  to  this  day  she  wonders  why  I  laughed  so  long 
and  heartily. 


The  Ambition  of  Macllhenny 


The  Ambition  of  Macllhenny 

After  mentioning  that  last  name  it  seems  like  rank 
waste  of  time  to  say  his  first  name  was  Sandy.  He 
couldn't  help  it,  his  parents  couldn't  help  it,  no  one 
could  help  it ;  one  name  follows  the  other  naturally. 

Well,  then,  being  Sandy  Macllhenny,  of  course  he 
was  Scotch.  I  mention  it  for  mere  form's  sake,  as  you 
knew  it  beforehand,  just  as  you  knew  what  his  first 
name  was.  But,  fortunately  for  us  all,  he  had  lived  in 
America  so  many  years  that  he  had  lost  or  thrown 
away  his  dialect,  and  the  only  thing  in  his  speech  that 
could  suggest  his  native  heath  was  the  marked  prefer 
ence  for  the  letter  "  u  "  instead  of  "  i  "  in  whisky, 
(and  I  think,  myself,  uwhusky"  has  a  more  filling 
sound)  and  a  "  burring,"  a  b'r'r'r  to  his  "  r's,"  as 
though  a  very  large,  bewildered  "  bumble-bee "  were 
blundering  about  the  end  of  his  broad  tongue,  and 
then  bumping  back  to  the  roof  of  his  mouth. 

Poor  Macllhenny 's  life  was  a  tragedy,  and  yet  it  was 
played,  to  the  very  last  act,  to  an  accompaniment  of 
jeers  and  laughter — not  malicious,  not  bitter,  but 
simple,  thoughtless  laughter. 

A  description  of  his  personal  appearance  might,  I 
think,  go  a  good  way  toward  explaining  the  cause  of 
that  general  laughter.  Had  he  been  simply  ugly, 
all  had  been  well — there's  nothing  injurious  in  ugli 
ness;  it  may  even  be  a  power.  He  was  worse  than 


198  A  Silent  Singer 

that.  In  our  English  language  there  is  a  word  that 
may  have  been  created  at  the  very  moment  of  Sandy's 
birth,  for  the  express  use  of  those  wishing  to  describe 
him  perfectly  but  briefly — that  word  is  "grotesque." 

He  was  tall,  very  tall,  with  a  sudden,  rounding  droop 
of  the  shoulders  that  gave  him  the  look  of  a  button 
hook  or  interrogation  point,  while  his  thickness  through 
the  body  was  about  that  of  a  choice,  salt  codfish.  If 
he  was  furnished  with  the  usual  number  of  internal 
organs  they  must  have  been  pressed  like  autumn  leaves 
in  a  dictionary,  or  else  he  did  not  wear  them  all  at  one 
time  ;  that's  how  thin  he  was.  Then  he  was  the  only 
tall  man  I  ever  saw  pacing  through  life  on  bowed-legs. 
No,  not  knock-kneed !  Sandy's  legs  were  bowed  to  a 
roundness  that  let  one  see,  at  a  glance,  just  how  a 
picture  of  certain  portions  of  the  landscape  would  look 
in  a  perfectly  round  frame.  No  man  on  earth  could 
command  respect  while  standing  on  a  pair  of  legs  like 
Sandy's,  unless  they  were  concealed  beneath  the  pro 
tecting  petticoat  of  church  or  college.  He  had  very 
high  cheek-bones,  across  which  the  skin  was  drawn  so 
tightly  that  they  looked  like  a  pair  of  unexpected 
knuckles.  His  chin  was  long  and  straight,  without  the 
slightest  indentation  or  curve  about  it.  His  nose 
shared  in  the  general  lengthiness  and  was  thin  and 
pointed,  while,  owing  to  the  narrowness  of  his  entire 
structural  plan,  each  small,  greenish-blue  eye  turned 
inwardly  and  gazed  with  fixed  resentment  at  the  inter 
vening  bridge  that  seemed  to  be  crowding  them. 


The  Ambition  of  Macllhenny  199 

And  these  cruelly  crossed  eyes  made  Macllhenny  a 
veritable  joy  to  the  street  boys,  who  would  follow  him, 
performing  warlike  dances,  and  then  rush  before  him 
and  wait  at  street  corners  with  ostentatiously  crossed 
forefingers  between  which  they  gravely  spat  to  avert 
tlie  ill-luck  his  glance  might  put  upon  them. 

Poor  man!  In  no  limb,  no  feature  had  he  been  spared 
— so  that  the  final  touch  of  common,  coarse  ugliness 
was  found  in  iae  shining  baldness  of  the  top  of  his 
head,  and  the  little  flounce  of  brick-red  hair  with  which 
he  seemed  to  be  modestly  trying  to  cover  its  startling 
nudity. 

With  such  a  body  to  dwell  in,  one  can  hardly  wonder 
that  his  mind  should  become  distorted  and  develop 
only  in  one  direction,  as  it  were,  and  such  a  direction, 
for  the  ambition  of  Macllhenny,  this  poor,  cross-eyed, 
bowlegged  Scotchman  of  the  lower  laboring  class — 
this  excellent  cutter  of  stone,  was  to  be  the  greatest 
tragic-actor  of  his  day  ! 

Nor  was  his  ambition  of  the  mere  "  I  wish  I  were  !  " 
or  "  I  would  like  to  be  ! "  order.  It  was  a  devouring 
passion. 

A  strong  word,  "  devouring,"  but  since  Webster 
says  it  means,  among  other  things,  "  to  consume  raven 
ously,  to  prey  upon,  to  swallow  up,  to  appropriate 
greedily,"  it  is  the  right  word,  for  his  mad  ambition, 
even  in  its  beginning,  appropriated  greedily  all  his 
small  savings,  all  his  spare  time.  It  consumed  his 
sense  of  duty  toward  his  wife — he  had  no  sense  of  the 


200  A  Silent  Singer 

ridiculous  to  consume.  It  preyed  upon  his  heart  as 
well  as  his  mind,  and  finally  it  swallowed  up  his  very 
life. 

Many  of  the  old  acting  plays  he  knew  by  heart,  had 
memorized  literally  from  cover  to  cover,  while  his 
knowledge  of  Shakespeare's  unacted  plays  was  greater 
than  most  actors'  knowledge  of  the  acting  ones.  Quite 
naturally  he  was  given  over  to  the  habit  of  quoting,  in 
season  and  out  of  season,  and  it  was  an  indulgence  in 
this  habit  that  brought  the  stonecutter  into  touch  with 
the  actors  of  the  city. 

There  was  a  saloon  not  far  from  the  theatre,  and 
Macllhenny,  being  at  work  near  by,  went  in  one  noon 
for  his  mid-day  beer.  There  was  a  party  of  actors 
there  eagerly  discussing  the  morning  news  of  the  death 
of  one  of  their  profession,  a  very  well  known  and 
successful  actor.  Now,  as  they  all  knew,  one  of  this 
party  had  been  the  envious  enemy  of  the  dead  man, 
and  now,  instead  of  a  respectful  silence,  they  were 
astonished  to  see  him  assuming  deep  grief.  There  was 
a  great  pulling  of  moustaches  and  exchanging  of 
glarices,  but  no  one  replied,  and  the  hypocrite  burst 
out  again,  first  with  fulsome  praise,  and  then  with 
exaggerated  expressions  of  sorrow.  The  last  word  was 
barely  spoken,  when  a  voice  with  a  burr  in  it  gravely 
and  most  distinctly  remarked:  "  The  tears  live  in  an 
onion  that  should  water  this  sorrow !  " 

There  was  an  instant  of  surprised  silence,  in  which 
every  one  recognized  the  exquisite  fitness  of  the  quota- 


The  Ambition  of  Macllhenny  201 

tion,  and  then  a  roar  of  laughter  —  another  and 
another !  Many  beers  were  thrust  upon  the  Scotch 
stonecutter,  who  knew  his  Shakespeare  so  well — and 
— and — oh  !  poor  Macllhenny !  Straightway  he  neg 
lected  his  work ;  he  loitered  too  long  at  his  nooning. 
He  could  not  tear  himself  away  from  the  actors,  who 
listened  to  his  quotations  and  laughed  at  his  antics,  as 
children  might  laugh  at  the  capers  of  a  monkey.  But 
Macllhenny  left  them  with  a  wild  gleam  in  his  poor, 
crossed  eyes,  with  jumping,  twitching  muscles  about 
his  thin  lips,  fairly  drunk  with  excitement. 

It  was  on  one  of  these  occasions  that  he  saw  his 
landlord  ahead  of  him  in  the  public  street — a  rotund, 
little  person  who  seemed  to  have  had  one  story  left  off 
when  he  was  built.  He  knew  it,  too,  and  tried,  with 
piled  up  dignity  and  high  silk  hat,  to  make  up  the 
missing  height.  And  it  was  to  this  dignified,  black- 
croated,  slow-moving,  old  gentleman  that  Macllhenny 
roared :  "  Turn,  hell-hound,  turn !  Turn,  I  say ! 
I  want  to  hand  you  me  month's  rent  and  save  a  trip 
to  your  house  to-morrow!  " 

That  was  one  of  his  out  of  season  quotations,  for  the 
dignified  old  party  was  no  hell-hound,  but  Macllhenny 
had  just  been  discussing  Macbeth,  and  showing  how 
poorly  Mr.  Booth  understood  that  character,  admitting 
that  the  "  laddie  did  his  best,  and  meant  well,  still  he 
(Macllhenny)  was  the  one  man  [living  who  had  got 
inside  the  part "  ! 

Well  along  in  the  season,  one  of  the  actors  was  to 


202  A  Silent  Singer 

take  a  benefit,  and  as  he  was  not  much  of  a  favorite 
with  the  public,  he  was  greatly  worried  about  arrang 
ing  an  attractive  "  bill."  Perhaps  I  should  say  that 
when  one  takes  "  a  benefit  "  the  fact  is  announced  on 
the  theatre's  bills.  The  "  beneficiary  "  has  the  privi 
lege  of  selecting  the  play  for  that  special  performance, 
and  on  that  one  night,  he  or  she  receives  one-half,  or 
one-third  of  the  gross  receipts  of  the  house,  by  which 
he  is  benefited  (perhaps),  hence  the  term,  "To  take  a 
benefit ! " 

A  couple  of  weeks  before,  at  the  "leading"  man's 
benefit,  there  had  been  several  volunteers,  among  them 
the  manager's  young  daughter,  who  sang  for  him,  and 
in  Macllhenny's  presence,  the  worried  actor  was 
mourning  because  there  was  no  one  to  volunteer  to 
assist  him,  when  up  rose  Sandy  Macllhenny  and 
offered  his  services.  Those  who  were  farthest  away 
writhed  in  quiet  laughter,  while  those  who  were  near 
him  suffered  silently.  In  that  silence  the  stonecutter 
read  dread  of  a  rival,  and  he  hastened  to  dispel  all 
anxiety  by  saying,  soothingly :  "  Don't  misunderstand 
me,  young  man!  You  have  nothing  to  fear!  I  do 
not  ask  to  play  a  '  part '  in  your  play  —  since  the 
public  could  then  have  neither  eye  nor  ear  for  any  man 
but  me — and  I'd  not  extinguish  any  one's  light  on  his 
benefit — but  I'll  do  a  recitation  or  a  reading-like,  for 
you — so  'Put  money  in  thy  purse,  Cassio,'  and  not 
injure  your  standing  as  an  actor !  " 

It  was  a  trying  moment.    They  liked  the  funny,  old 


The  Ambition  of  Macllhenny  203 

chap,  and  did  not  wish  to  hurt  his  feelings — but  good 
Heavens!  the  idea  of  turning  him  loose  before  an 
audience !  Again  came  the  voice  of  Macllhenny,  with 
the  inevitable  quotation:  "Why  whisper  you — and 
answer  not,  my  lords  ?  " 

A  laugh  followed,  and  the  tormented  actor  asked : 
"  Well,  Sandy  man,  what  on  earth  do  you  propose  to 
read  or  recite  ?" 

"  Why,"  answered  he,  "  since  you  will  be  doing  a 
tragedy,  and  I  have  no  wish  to  outshine  you  in  any 
way,  I'll  just  give  them  the  "Trial  Scene"  from 
"Pickwick." 

Through  the  storm  of  merriment  that  followed  one 
or  two  voices  cried :  "Let  him  do  it!  Let  him  do  it! 
It  will  be  great !  "  And  just  then,  at  the  glass  door  of 
the  saloon,  a  tall,  gaunt  woman  appeared.  She  was 
one  of  that  body  of  black-bombazine  women  who  are 
never  ragged,  but  are  always  rusty — who  all  appear 
of  the  same  age,  as  they  all  seem  to  have  passed  with 
reluctant  feet  their  fiftieth  birthday.  She  tapped  with 
a  black  cotton  fore-finger  on  the  glass,  and  Macllhenny 
went  to  her  at  once,  and  spoke  with  her  a  few  moments 
— and  one  exclaimed:  "The  Two  Dromios !  "  For 
indeed  had  it  not  been  for  her  straight  eyes,  she  might 
have  been  Sandy's  twin.  When  he  returned  some  one 
said :  "Your  wife,  Macllhenny  ?  " 

"  Aye,"  he  said,  "  aye — and  though  I  don't  claim 
she's  a  beauty,  yet  c  I'll  give  no  blemish  to  her  honor 
— none ! '  At  which  they  howled  with  delight,  and 


204  A  Silent  Singer 

when  they  were  tired  of  pounding  one  another,  the 
voice  arose  again:  "Let  him  go  on — oh,  let  him  go 
on!"  and  another  added :  "Yes,  let  him  go  on,  just 
to  see  how  many  he'll  kill  before  he  gets  off  again ! " 

And  so  it  happened  that  Sandy  Macllhenny,  stone 
cutter  by  the  grace  of  God,  became,  by  the  cruel  whim 
of  man,  an  actor,  and  was  duly  announced  on  the 
"benefit-bills"  to  read  the  "Trial  Scene"  from 
"  Pickwick." 

Alas,  "  those  whom  the  Gods  will  destroy,  they  first 
make  mad !"  It  is  an  ancient  promise,  and  so  truly 
was  it  kept  with  this  their  chosen  victim,  that  on  the 
dark  and  fatal  night  that  was  the  beginning  of  the 
end  for  him,  poor  Macllhenny  saw  the  radiant  dawn 
of  a  superb  success. 

The  night  came,  and  a  fairly  good-sized  audience 
was  present.  Sandy's  reading  was  placed  between  the 
first  and  second  plays,  and  a  more  ludicrous  figure  never 
appeared  before  the  public.  By  some  mysterious  pro 
cess  he  had  forced  his  widely  bowed-legs  into  a  pair  of 
very  narrow,  straight-cut  trousers.  They  were  of  an 
unsympathetic  nature,  and  as  he  wore  low-cut  shoes, 
they  basely  betrayed  about  two  inches  of  white,  womany- 
looking  stockings,  thus  giving  a  strong  suggestion  of 
impropriety  to  his  whole  "  make-up." 

His  "  wescut,"  as  he  called  it,  he  had  brought,  as  he 
proudly  declared,  from  Scotland,  and  the  actors,  as 
with  one  voice,  had  cried :  "  It  looks  the  part,  Sandy, 
it  looks  it!" 


The  Ambition  of  Macllhenny  205 

It  was  a  short-waisted,  low-necked  vest  of  a  plaid 
(of  course)  of  red  and  green  and  blue  and  yellow,  and 
the  greatest  of  these  was  red,  and  it  was  velvet,  and  it 
had  two  crowded  rows  of  shining,  brass  buttons.  With 
quite  unnecessary  candor,  his  shirt  proclaimed,  through 
dragging  wrinkle  and  straggling  band,  that  it  was  of 
domestic  manufacture ;  while  an  ancient  black  satin 
stock  nearly  choked  the  life  out  of  him.  And  his 
hair — oh,  Sandy,  Sandy !  His  wife  had  curled  it  on 
a  very  small  iron,  and  had  then  drawn  the  comb 
through  it,  thus  setting  it  a-flying  in  a  wild,  red  fuzz 
on  whose  edges  the  gaslight  glittered,  until  he  looked 
like  some  absurd,  old  Saint  with  his  halo  falling  off 
backward ! 

As  this  figure  of  fun  appeared,  there  was  a  ripple  of 
laughter,  and  in  a  few  minutes — in  the  expressive  slang 
of  to-day — the  audience  were  "  on "  to  him.  The 
laughter  grew  and  grew — and  then  that  strange  strain 
of  cruelty,  that  has  come  down  to  us  from  our  ancient 
barbaric  forefathers,  and  is  so  much  easier  to  arouse 
in  a  crowd  than  in  a  single  individual,  was  all  alive. 
They  thought  they  recognized  a  victim,  and  they  rose 
to  the  occasion.  They  baited  him ;  they  bombarded 
him  with  satirical  applause;  they  demanded  certain 
passages  over  again ;  they  addressed  him  as  Mr.  Buz- 
fuz,  and  they  had  just  reached  the  point  of  throwing 
things  when  the  reading  ended. 

As  Macllhenny  had  no  sense  of  the  ridiculous,  he 
could  not  distinguish  the  difference  between  being 


206  A  Silent  Singer 

laughed  at  and  being  laughed  with,  so  it  was  all  like 
fragrant  incense  to  him,  and  he  came  off  the  stage,  his 
crossed  eyes  blazing  at  the  bridge  of  his  nose,  on  each 
cheek  bone  a  spot  of  scarlet  and  a  burr  on  his  tongue 
that  made  his  first  words  of  triumph  utterly  incomprehen 
sible  to  those  about  him.  Two  of  us  there  were  who 
drew  aside,  and  pitying  him,  spoke  him  fair  and  respect 
fully,  but  the  others,  meaning  no  harm,  carrying  on  a 
jest,  congratulated  him  extravagantly,  and  when  he  went 
out  from  the  theatre  that  night  the  promise  of  the  gods 
had  been  fulfilled,  for  Macllhenny  was  literally  mad ! 

He  never  did  another  stroke  of  work.  His  kit  of 
tools  became  strangers  to  him.  He  touched  chisel  and 
mallet  but  once  more,  and  that  was  when  he  pawned 
them  that  he  might  buy  a  play-book,  and  a  little  bread, 
with  which  to  quiet  for  a  moment  the  two  devils  who 
tormented  him,  one  gnawing  in  his  brain,  the  other  at 
his  stomach. 

In  going  to  and  from  the  theatre  I  passed  the  tiny, 
three-roomed  cottage  the  Macllhennys  occupied,  and 
morning  and  evening  I  could  hear  his  high,  rasping 
voice  declaiming,  ranting,  pouring  forth  pages  of  old 
plays,  while  through  the  window  I  could  see  him 
brandishing  a  poker  for  a  sword,  and  wildly  rumpling 
his  little,  red  flounce  of  hair  whenever  he  pronounced 
a  curse — whether  he  was  Lear  or  Richelieu  or  Sir 
Giles,  it  mattered  not,  he  dragged  all  curses  from  the 
roots  of  his  thin,  red  hair. 

Poor  Mrs.  Sandy   had  descended  from  her  former 


The  Ambition  of  Macllhenny  207 

state  of  bombazine,  and  was  daily  seen  in  black  cotton, 
going  out  to  jobs  of  washing  or  office-cleaning,  so  her 
neighbors  told  me.  And  once,  when  they  missed  her 
comfortable  blanket-shawl  and  noticed  that  she 
shivered  through  the  streets  in  an  old  Stella  shawl, 
which  was  a  creation  of  thin  cashmere  meant  for 
summer  only,  they  rashly  spoke  the  sympathy  they 
felt,  and  their  condemnation  of  MacHhenny's  course. 

It  was  the  first  time  and  likewise  it  was  every  other 
time,  including  the  last  time  they  so  presumed.  She 
listened  in  stony  silence,  and  then  with  bitter  pride 
and  icy  resentment  in  every  look  and  word,  she 
demanded :  "  What  else  shall  my  man  do  ?  Is  it  for 
the  like  of  him  to  be  pounding  stone  forever,  and  he 
the  finest  actor-man  in  all  the  world  to-day?  " 

Now  Mrs.  Macllhenny  was  a  Presbyterian  of  a 
blueness  like  unto  indigo,  and  of  a  narrowness  incon 
ceivable — who  have  never  in  her  life  entered  a  theatre. 
Therefore  it  was  but  natural  that  one  of  the  surprised 
women  should  ask :  "  But  how  do  you  know  that  ?  " 
And  she  made  answer — oh !  loving,  loyal,  old  Scottish 
wife  —  with  withering  scorn  and  infinite  conviction: 
"  Why,  has  the  man  na'  telled  me  so  hissel'  ? "  and 
so  went  her  hard  way. 

For  many  weeks  Macllhenny  had  made  the 
manager's  life  a  burden  to  him — asking,  praying, 
demanding  an  engagement.  "  Why,  man,"  he  would 
say,  "  did  you  not  see  the  public  at  my  very  feet — did 
you  not  hear  their  acclamations,  and  you  know  right 


208  A  Silent  Singer 

well  that  in  the  absence  of  garlands  and  flowers  they 
would  have  tossed  to  me  anything  their  hands  came 
upon?  What  are  you  afraid  of?  The  enmity  of  your 
wee  bit  stars  !  I'll  see  that  you  suffer  no  loss !  " 

Then  steady  disappointment  told  upon  him.  His 
temper  began  to  change — he  grew  sullen,  suspicious, 
and  began  to  tell  strange  tales  of  being  followed  at 
night  by  certain  actors — generally  stars.  No  man 
could  call  Sandy  Macllhenny  a  sponge  or  beat.  When 
he  reached  the  point  where  he  could  not  extend 
a  general  invitation  to  those  present  to  drink — he 
ceased  to  share  in  the  general  invitations  of  others. 
And  when  he  could  no  longer  pay  his  own  footing,  he 
no  longer  entered  the  saloon,  but  loitered  outside  to 
talk  to  the  actors.  Imagining  things  were  not  well 
with  him,  the  actor  for  whom  Macllhenny  had  read 
asked  him  to  accept  some  payment,  but  with  ever- 
ready  quotation,  Sandy  refused,  gravely  repeating: 
"  There's  none  can  truly  say  he  gives — if  he  receives! " 

Then  even  the  outside  visits  grew  far  apart,  and 
through  my  passing  of  his  door  I  was  the  only  one 
who  knew  anything  of  him,  and  I  knew  so  little,  dear 
Heaven !  so  little !  Only  that  he  studied,  rehearsed, 
declaimed!  I  did  not  know  how  many,  many  days 
passed  without  bringing  Mrs.  Sandy  any  job  of  work, 
and  their  pride-sealed  lips  made  no  complaint.  The 
old  Scotch  couple  were  not  unlike  a  pair  of  sharp,  old 
razors — perfectly  harmless  if  left  alone  in  their  own 
case,  but  very  unsafe  things  for  general  handling — 


The  Ambition  of  Macllhenny  209 

and  so  in  the  midst  of  plently,  they  suffered  the  pangs 
—the  gnawing  pangs — of  hunger  for  weary  days  and 
wearier  nights,  and  no  one  knew  ! 

One  spring-like  day,  as  I  passed  the  cottage — the 
window  being  raised — I  heard  Macllhenny 's  voice  at 
some  distance,  and  recognized  the  lines  of  Woolsey  in 
Henry  VIII. :  "  Had  I  but  served  my  God  with  half 
the  zeal  that  I  have  served — have  served — ,"  he 
stopped — so  did  I.  Some  change  in  his  voice  held 
me !  "  What  was  it  ?  It  was  weak  and  husky,  to  be 
sure ;  but  there  was  something  else,  some  force,  some 
thrill,  some  strange  quality.  Again  the  voice  rose: 
"  Had  I  but  served  my  God  with  half  the  zeal  that  I 
have  served — have  served — ,"  almost  unconsciously  I 
gave  the  words,  "My  King,"  and  he,  without  even 
turning  his  face,  took  it  up,  saying  "  Aye,  aye  !  <  My 
King — he  would  not  in  mine  age  have  left  me  naked 
to  mine  enemies ! '  "  and  he  laughed.  As  I  hurried 
on,  in  all  my  nerves  there  was  a  creeping  fear,  for  in 
his  voice  I  had  felt  the  subtle  difference  between  rant 
ing  and  raving — had  felt  the  man  was  mad !  And 
that  very  morning  an  actor  mentioned  him,  saying  he 
had  seen  him  in  liquor.  "  Oh,  no,"  I  answered, 
"  Macllhenny  never  drinks  I  " 

"  Well,"  insisted  the  actor,  "  when  a  man  staggers  in 
his  walk  and  talks  to  himself  on  the  public  street,  it  looks 
as  if  he  had  been  drinking  too  much  rye."  And 
another  standing  by,  laughingly  said  :  "  Perhaps  the  old 
chap  has  eaten  too  little,  instead  of  drinking  too  much ! " 


210  A  Silent  Singer 

Such  cruel  truths  are  sometimes  said  in  jest.  A 
few  days  later,  having  only  to  appear  in  the  farce, 
I  was  quite  late  in  going  to  the  theatre,  and  as  I  neared 
the  cottage,  I  saw  lamplight  streaming  from  its  window, 
and  heard  Sandy  reciting,  as  usual.  But  there  was 
some  other  noise.  His  words,  too,  came  in  gusts  and 
gasps,  and  I  said  to  myself:  "Why,  that  sounds 
exactly  like  two  men  rehearsing  a  combat  for  Richard 
or  Macbeth !"  The  cottage  was  flush  with  the  side 
walk  and,  as  I  came  opposite  the  window,  I  could  not 
help  looking  in,  and  there  I  stood  and  stared,  for  in  the 
center  of  the  room  old  Sandy  and  his  wife  were  strug 
gling  desperately  for  the  possession  of  a  hatchet  which 
he  held!  "Sandy!"  she  cried,  "Sandy!"  and  all  the 
time  Macbeth's  lines  poured  from  his  lips :  "  They  have 
tied  me  to  a  stake !"  Almost  he  wrenched  himself  free 
from  her :  "I  cannot  fly,  and  bear-like,  I  must  fight 
the  course !" 

At  that  moment  his  wife  tore  the  hatchet  from  his 
hand  and  flung  it  across  the  room.  He  plunged  for 
ward  to  recover  it,  but  in  a  twinkling  she  had  a  grip 
upon  his  arms  just  above  each  elbow,  and  next  moment 
she  had  shoved  him  into  the  chair  close  to  the  window, 
and  leaning  over  him,  in  spite  of  his  wri things,  held  him 
tight. 

She  must  have  felt  my  gaze,  for  suddenly  she  turned 
her  white  face  and  saw  me.  Into  her  eyes  there  came 
both  fear  and  furious  anger,  and  then,  without  loosing 
her  hold  for  one  moment  on  Sandy's  arms,  she  thrust 


The  Ambition  of  Macllhenny  211 

her  face  forward,  and  catching  the  shade  between  her 
teeth,  she  fiercely  dragged  it  down !  And  though  the 
rebuff  was  sharp  as  a  blow  in  the  face,  yet  for  a  moment 
more  I  stood  staring,  and  saw  on  the  white  shade  a 
black  shadow-woman  bending  over  and  holding  fast  a 
shadow-man,  and,  as  a  kaleidoscope  responds  to  a  touch, 
at  a  single  movement  these  shadows  blurred,  parted, 
joined  again,  and  this  time,  though  she  still  held  him 
close,  the  shadow-woman  was  on  her  knees,  and  her 
head  was  on  the  breast  of  the  shadow-man  !  —  and 
ashamed  to  have  watched  so  long,  I  hurried  away 
and  said  to  myself:  "To-morrow  I  will  go  there,  and 
sharp  words  shall  not  drive  me  away,  until  I  learn  by 
what  route  help  can  reach  them !  " 

Next  day  I  stood  and  rapped  and  rapped,  but  no  one 
answered  to  my  rapping.  The  house  was  very  quiet, 
the  room  seemed  empty,  but  when  1  carefully  looked 
I  saw  a  little  smoke  rising  from  the  chimney.  The 
following  day  the  shade  was  down — I  saw  no  smoke — 
but  I  was  obstinate,  and  I  went  around  to  the  back 
door  and  knocked  there,  and  was  instantly  met  by  a 
white-faced  "  fury  !  " 

"  So,"  she  cried,  "  you  have  come  to  spy  for  them ! 
Well,  take  them  the  news  !  Their  work  is  done  !  They 
have  no  one  now  to  fear — he's  gone !  He  that  was 
greater  than  them  all !  Come  ! "  dragging  me  by  main 
force  into  the  room  and  to  the  bed-room  door :  "  See  for 
yourself  how  he  lies  there,  dead  of  slow  starvation !  " 
One  forced  glance  I  gave  at  the  long,  long,  rigid  outline 


212  A  Silent  Singer 

on  the  bed,  but  even  that  forced  glance  caught,  mock 
ingly  peeping  from  under  the  dead  man's  pillow,  a 
yellow-covered  play-book. 

Wrenching  myself  away  from  the  sight,  I  turned, 
and  putting  my  arms  about  her  trembling,  old  body,  I 
held  her  close  and  said :  "  Oh,  you  poor  wife !  you 
poor,  poor  wife !" 

She  stood  within  my  circling  arms  quite  still  for  an 
instant,  then  suddenly  her  hard  face  broke  into  con 
vulsive  weeping.  She  thrust  me  from  her,  gasping : 
"  Don't— don't !  I  say !"  and  fled  to  him,  while  I  rushed 
from  the  house  bearing  my  ill-news. 

Every  one  was  shocked,  and  one  was  wounded,  that 
Sandy  had  not  asked  his  help.  He  did  not  under 
stand  the  sturdy  pride  of  the  old  pair  who  accepted 
nothing  they  had  not  earned  and  asked  of  the  world 
but  one  thing,  and  that  was  a  decent  privacy  to 
suffer  in. 

Three  of  the  actors  went  at  once  to  the  house,  the 
one  who  had  felt  hurt,  a  gentle  and  kindly  soul,  acting 
as  spokesman.  They  offered  help  to  her  and  burial 
for  Sandy,  but  they  were  met  with  such  -invective  and 
imprecation  as  fairly  stunned  them,  and  though,  by 
their  secret  help,  they  later  on  saved  poor  Macllhenny 
from  the  Potter's  Field,  they  were  compelled  to  beat  a 
retreat  before  his  frenzied  widow. 

With  bitter  scarcasm  she  invited  one  to  enter  and 
"bring  a  brush  and  see  if  he  could  find  in  that  house  one 
crumb  of  bread  I  "  She  told  them  exactly  "how  many 


The  Ambition  of  Macllhenny  213 

weeks  a  man  could  live  upon  a  kit  of  tools  pawned  one 
by  one;"  she  reviled  them  as  "thieves"  for  stealing 
her  husband's  "  great  thoughts  and  Ideas  of  acting  ;" 
jeered  at  them  for  "  cowards,"  that  they  had  not 
"  dared  to  stab  him,"  though  they  had  dogged  his  steps 
with  evil  intent  many  a  dark  night ;"  hailed  them  as 
"  hypocrites,"  because  they  hid  their  joy  and,  pretending 
grief,  came  here  and  offered  "decent  burial" — and  as 
they  slowly  withdrew,  she  stood  upon  her  doorstep  and 
called  after  them :  "  Hypocrites !  hypocrites  !  You 
starved  him  to  slow  death — and  he  was  broken 
hearted  !  " 

The  word  seemed  to  catch  her  own  ear.  She  paused 
— slowly  she  repeated,  "broken-hearted !  "  Then  sud 
denly  she  caught  the  clue — flung  her  gaunt  arms  wide 
— she  lifted  her  tortured  eyes  to  the  sky,  and  with  a 
burst  of  bitter  triumph,  cried  :  "But  a  broken  and  con 
trite  heart,  O  God,  shalt  Thou  not  despise !  " 

And  hearing  that  splendid  declaration — that  so 
thrills  with  hope ! — those  who  had  all  unintentionally 
worked  her  woe,  bowed  their  heads  and  breathed  a 
quick — Amen ! 


John  Hickey:  Coachman 


John  Hickey:  Coachman 

"This  is  to  certify  that  the  bearer,  John  Hickey,  five 
years  in  my  employ,  is  as  honest  a  man  as  ever  strode 
a  horse. 

"(Signed),  McDowELL,  General." 

The  bearer,  John  Hickey,  stood  tall,  straight  and 
uncovered  before  me,  while  I  read  the  above  recom 
mendation.  There  were  several  others,  but  I  never 
looked  at  them.  I  knew  something  of  "  McDowell, 
General,"  in  California,  and  I  was  persuaded  that  a 
man  who  served  him  for  five  years  possessed  something 
more  than  "  honesty  "  in  the  outfit  of  his  virtues. 

But  he  had,  in  my  opinion,  received  a  still  better 
recommendation  at  the  very  moment  of  his  coming 
into  our  lives,  on  that  bright  summer  morning.  I  had 
been  sitting  on  the  front  porch,  with  a  dog  on  each  side 
of  me — that  being  my  usual  allowance.  Both  these 
dogs — Maida  and  Sancho  — yearned  with  a  great  yearn 
ing  to  exterminate  the  whole  race  of  organ-grinders. 
They  also  had  a  profound  dislike  for  that  rather  large 
body  of  men  and  women  who  move  back  and  forth  on 
the  earth's  surface  carrying  bundles.  Therein  lay  their 
only  fault ;  otherwise,  they  were  good,  honest,  self- 
respecting  dogs.  And  it  must  be  admitted  that  this 
peculiarity  of  theirs  helped  to  keep  things  lively  about 
the  place  and  our  blood  in  quick  circulation.  There- 


218  A  Silent  Singer 

fore,  when  John  Hickey  entered  the  gates,  carrying  an 
unusually  large  valise,  there  was  a  roar  and  a  rush 
before  I  could  form  one  word  of  command  or  entreaty. 
The  blazing  eyes  and  white,  uncovered  fangs  of  the 
dogs  told  so  plainly  of  their  fell  intention  of  reducing 
him  and  his  valise  to  a  condition  resembling  desiccated 
codfish,  that  any  one  might  have  been  frightened.  But 
before  they  reached  him  I  heard  a  calm  voice,  and  an 
unmistakable  Irish  one,  saying :  "  Well,  well !  What 
is  it  now?  What  is  it?" 

Lightning  could  not  have  stopped  them  quicker. 
Their  heads  lowered,  their  tails  sagged  down  in  a 
shamed  sort  of  a  way.  They  stretched  their  heads  out 
and  sniffed  him  a  moment.  Then,  with  a  wild  yelp  of 
joy,  Sancho,  with  slavering  jaws,  bounded  at  his  breast, 
striking  staggering  blows  by  way  of  welcome,  while 
Maida,  the  fierce,  was  standing  erect  on  hind  legs  at  his 
side,  kissing  his  protesting  hands,  and  digging  with 
both  great  paws  in  his  side.  At  last  they  subsided  a 
little.  He  stood,  showing  the  traces  of  their  rapturous 
welcome,  while  they  sat  at  his  feet,  and  looking  into 
his  face,  told  him,  with  shining,  loving  eyes  and 
excited  beating  of  their  tails,  that  he  was  the  very  fel 
low  they  had  been  searching  for  ever  since  the  seal  of 
their  puppy  hood's  blindness  had  fallen  from  their 
foolish,  blue  eyes. 

During  the  lull  the  man  produced  his  little  packet  of 
recommendations  and  passed  them  to  me.  My  hus 
band,  returning  at  that  moment,  engaged  him  in  a 


John  Hickey:  Coachman  219 

conversation  consisting  mainly  of  questions  and 
answers,  and  that  gave  me  a  chance  to  look  at  "  the 
bearer,  John  Hickey."  The  only  Irish  thing  about 
him  was  his  voice.  He  was  tall,  square  of  shoulder, 
flat  of  back,  clear-skinned  and  ruddy,  with  good  fea 
tures,  keen,  light-blue  eyes,  and  brown  hair,  which  he 
wore  in  an  odd  way,  parted  down  the  back  of  his  head, 
and  brushed  forward  and  upward  toward  his  ears, 
which  gave  him  a  peculiarly  cocky  and  alert  air.  There 
was  something  in  the  carriage  of  his  head,  the  turning 
out  of  his  feet,  the  hang  of  his  arms  and  the  position 
of  his  hands,  when  he  stood  at  "  attention,"  that 
said,  as  plain  as  words  could  say,  "  Soldier,  yes  ;  '  ex/ 
if  you  like,  but  soldier  all  the  same."  I  thought  that 
then  ;  I  knew  it  by  night. 

I  was  just  going  to  put  a  question  to  him  when  the 
sunlight  played  him  a  trick  and  betrayed  his  poor,  little 
secret  to  me.  In  vain,  then,  the  upright  pose,  the 
cocky  air,  and  jaunty  manner!  It  must  have  been 
some  hours  since  he  had  shaved — he  wore  no  hair  upon 
his  face,  and  as  he  stood  there  the  sun  shone  full  upon 
him,  revealing  on  cheek,  and  chin,  and  upper  lip,  the 
glittering  frost  of  age,  and  he  stood  revealed,  an  old 
man. 

I  felt  touched  by  the  bold  bluff  he  was  making 
against  Time,  and  I  wished  to  give  him  a  trial.  There 
fore,  I  looked  steadily  at  my  lord  and  master,  and, 
using  that  great,  unwritten  language  understood  and 
used  by  every  husband  and  wife  on  the  top  of  the 


220  A  Silent  Singer 

earth,  I  signified  my  desire  for  him  to  engage  John 
Hickey,  and  he,  being  a  man  of  intelligence  and  a 
husband  in  good  standing,  replied  by  the  same  means : 
"  All  right !  but  I'm  afraid  he  is  a  bit  elderly.  Still, 
if  you  wish  it!  "  And  he  told  John  to  come  with  him 
and  he  would  show  him  his  quarters  and  settle  about 
wages,  etc.  The  words  were  scarcely  out  of  his  lips 
before  the  dogs  were  up  and  leading  the  way,  with 
waving  tails  and  many  backward  turnings  of  their 
heads.  I  think  I  have  said  the  day  was  very  hot,  and 
as  the  two  men  stepped  from  the  lawn  to  the  carriage- 
drive,  my  husband,  finding  his  hat  oppressive,  removed 
it  and  held  it  in  his  hand.  Thus  it  happened  that  he 
walked  with  bared  head  at  John  Hickey's  side,  while 
he  escorted  him  to  his  new  home.  It  was  a  trivial 
thing  to  notice,  yet  there  came  a  time  when  it  was 
sharply  recalled  to  me. 

The  new  man  had  not  to  take  the  horses  out  that 
first  day  at  all,  and  in  about  an  hour  after  his  install 
ment  he  sent  a  messenger  to  me,  asking  if  I  had  a 
large  flag,  and  if  I  had  one  would  I  not  send  it  down 
to  him,  the  coachman,  who  promised  to  take  good  care 
of  it? 

We  had  a  large  flag — yes.  But  what  on  earth  did 
the  man  want  with  it  then?  There  were  four  good, 
solid  weeks  between  us  and  the  glorious  Fourth  of 
July.  What  could  he  mean  ?  Ah,  well !  let  him  have 
it.  So  the  flag,  a  really  fine  one,  as  it  happened,  to 
his  great  joy  was  sent  down  to  him. 


John  Hickey:  Coachman  221 

Shortly  after  that  I  saw  him  with  a  lot  of  rope  and 
some  tools,  tinkering,  under  the  active  supervision  of 
both  dogs,  at  the  old  flagstaff  standing  011  the  hill 
which  rises  sharply  at  the  back  of  the  stable.  Later 
in  the  afternoon,  chancing  to  glance  from  the  window, 
there,]sure  enough,  was  the  brave,  old  flag,  floating  free 
from  the  top  of  the  staff.  And  very  pretty  it  looked, 
too,  against  the  blue  sky  and  above  the  fresh,  green 
foliage  of  the  young  summer-time.  Ah,  I  thought, 
that's  it,  is  it?  But  I  had  not  got  it  all,  even  yet,  for 
just  before  dinner  I  heard  an  explosion  of  some  sort 
of  firearm  !  My  heart  gave  a  jump,  and  I  exclaimed : 
"  Good  mercy !  Has  the  poor  man  met  with  an  acci 
dent  ?  " 

I  ran  to  the  window.  Out  on  the  hill,  by  the  flag 
staff,  stood  John,  while  through  a  cloud  of  smoke  the 
flag  came  fluttering  down  just  as  the  red  sun  sank  from 
view.  I  understood  at  last !  My  soldier-coachman  was 
saluting  the  flag,  and  firing  for  a  sunset  gun  a  rusty  old 
blunderbuss  that  was  likely  to  kick  him  through  the 
greenhouse  every  time  he  touched  it. 

I  confess  I  sat  down  and  laughed  hysterically.  He 
had  intended  to  greet  the  rising  sun  in  the  same  man 
ner,  but  as  sickness  in  the  family  required  quiet  at  that 
hour,  he  contented  himself  with  simply  running  up  his 
flag  at  exactly  the  proper  moment.  And  when  my  hus 
band,  either  from  secret  sympathy  with  "Old  John's" 
feelings,  or  from  a  fear  for  the  safety  of  the  greenhouse, 
gave  him  a  good  musket  and  enough  ammunition  for  a 


222  A  Silent  Singer 

modest  sort  of  battle,  John  Hickey,  coachman,  was 
proud  and  happy. 

And  so  he  entered  upon  his  life  with  us.  We  spoke 
of  hiring  ?  In  our  dull  way  we  for  some  time  believed 
that  we  had  engaged  or  accepted  him,  not  at  all  under 
standing,  till  much  later,  that  he  had  accepted  us,  and 
that  the  house  was  his,  the  place  was  his,  the  fruits 
thereof,  and  that  the  family  were  his — his  household 
gods — whom  he  loved  devotedly,  and  served  faithfully 
all  the  rest  of  his  life. 

We  were  quick  to  discover  that  in  "  Old  John  "  we 
had  an  excellent  servant  and  an  eccentric  man,  while 
the  slow  years  piled  up  proof  upon  proof  of  his  loyalty. 
He  won  my  heart  at  once  by  quickly  learning  the 
individual  characters  of  our  horses.  One  in  particular, 
my  favorite  saddle-horse,  I  was  a  bit  anxious  about, 
since  he  was  getting  the  reputation  of  being  ugly.  He 
(Creole  by  name)  was  a  big,  spirited  Kentucky  horse, 
with  an  exquisitely  tender  mouth,  requiring  a  very  light 
as  well  as  steady  hand.  Two  or  three  great  fellows, 
with  sledge-hammer  fists,  had  tried  to  ride  him  on  his 
bridle,  instead  of  on  his  back,  and  he  had,  as  the  result, 
lifted  them  not  too  gently  over  the  top  of  his  handsome 
head,  and  they  raised  the  cry  of  ugliness,  when  he  had 
simply  acted  in  self-defense,  as  would  any  other  Ken 
tucky  gentleman. 

But  when  "Old  John  "  returned  from  exercising  Cre 
ole  for  the  first  time,  he  remarked :  "  Ah,  he's  a  fine 
fellow ;  he's  got  a  mouth  as  tender  as  a  baby's,  and  a 


John  Hickey ;  Coachman  223 

heart  as  bold  as  a  lion's.  I  will  be  glad  to  see  you  on 
him,  ma'am." 

John  loved  the  horses  as  much  as  people  love  their 
children.  When  he  came  to  us  the  horses  were  most 
all  in  their  prime,  but  as  the  years  crept  by  they  aged 
and  weakened  together,  and  I  was  always  amused,  albeit 
touched  as  well,  to  see  "Old  John's"  fervent  efforts  to 
prove  to  the  world  that  they  still  preserved  all  the 
nerve,  vitality  and  fire  of  youth.  And  when  the  time 
came  when  the  carriage-horses  ought  really  to  have  been 
replaced,  "  Old  John "  was  a  sorrowful  man  and  an 
anxious  one ;  and  at  our  faintest  suggestion  of  a  change, 
with  frowning  brow  and  trembling  lips,  the  old  man 
would  march  stiffly  off  to  the  stable,  where  he  would 
assure  its  occupants  that  "  they  were  mighty  fine  horses, 
and  people  ought  to  know  it  by  this  time." 

Like  most  people  of  affectionate  disposition,  he  was 
very  fond  of  keeping  anniversaries.  All  high-days, 
holidays,  and  birthdays  were  precious  boons  to  him,  but 
they  came  to  be  occasions  of  more  or  less  anxiety  to  the 
family,  owing  to  his  utter  inability  to  express  his  joy 
without  the  help  of  an  explosion.  It  would  seem  that 
the  comparatively  harmless  running  up  of  flags,  backed 
by  explosions  of  varying  degrees  of  heaviness,  would  be 
a  sufficient  outlet  for  any  man's  joy.  But  John  Hickey 
had  still  a  "card  up  his  sleeve,"  so  to  speak,  for  the 
climax  of  his  love  and  enthusiasm,  the  actual  perfect 
flowering  of  his  joy  could  only  be  attained  by  the 
aid  of  blazing  tar.  A  great  bonfire  of  wood  was  not 


224  A  Silent  Singer 

to  be  despised,  but  tar  was  the  material  worthy  of  his 
attention,  and  when  he  had  diligently  sought  for  and 
found  the  most  dangerous  possible  places,  and  had  put 
in  each  a  kettle  of  flaming  tar,  and  could  gallop  wildly 
back  and  forth  from  one  kettle  to  another,  trying  to 
prevent  a  general  conflagration,  he  was  the  most  per 
fectly  happy  man  I  ever  saw. 

Not  more  than  ten  minutes  after  his  discovery  that 
my  birthday  fell  on  Saint  Patrick's  Day  he  was  at  the 
house,  asking  if  the  ladies  wouldn't  let  him  have  some 
"grane  material."  That  seemed  a  very  vague  order — 
"grane  material" — leaving  such  a  wide  margin  for 
speculation  as  to  what  kind  of  "  grane  material  "  he 
meant.  But  the  only  information  he  would  give  was 
that  he  just  wanted  "  grane  material,  dress  goods  or  the 
like." 

Thereupon  my  mother  gave  him  a  deep  flounce  of  all 
green  silk,  taken  from  a  retired  stage-dress  of  mine. 
This  he  ripped,  and  pressed,  and  sewed  at,  till,  lo !  on 
Saint  Patrick's  morning  there  fluttered  from  the  flag 
staff  a  brilliant,  green  silk  flag,  and  I  was  informed  it 
was  there  in  my  honor,  not  Saint  Patrick's.  In  the 
years  that  followed  I  was  very  rarely  at  home  on  my 
birthday,  but  no  matter  how  far  away  I  might  be,  early 
on  Saint  Patrick's  morning  the  green  silk  flag  ran 
swiftly  up  the  staff.  "  But  mark  this  now,"  as  he  him 
self  would  say,  never  even  in  my  honor,  never  once  did 
that  green  flag  fly  above  the  "  Stars  and  Stripes." 
Honest,  old  Irish- American  that  he  was,  the  flag  he  had 


John  Hickey:  Coachman  225 

served  with  arms  in  his  hands  was  the  first  flag  in  the 
world  for  him,  and  had  to  take  the  place  of  honor  every 
time. 

So  thoroughly  did  he  identify  himself  with  the  family 
that  when  anything  particular  was  going  on,  he,  with 
out  invitation,  yet  equally  without  the  faintest  idea  of 
presuming,  always  took  his  share.  On  one  occasion 
"  Old  John  "  learned  that  I  was  expecting  a  visit  from 
my  husband's  mother,  and  hearing  me  speak  of  the 
freshness  of  her  looks,  the  brightness  of  her  mind,  and 
her  extreme  activity  as  something  remarkable  in  one  of 
her  advanced  years,  his  interest  was  at  once  aroused. 
Knowing  his  ways  as  well  as  I  did  know  them  at  that 
time,  I  suppose  I  should  have  bridled  his  fine,  Irish 
enthusiasm ;  but,  truth  to  tell,  I  was  so  busy  with  my 
own  joyous  preparations  for  her  welcome  coming  that 
I  gave  no  thought  to  the  possible  doings  of  my  eccentric 

coachman.     Mamma  H had  heard  much  of  him, 

and  was  amused  by  his  stately  salute  to  her  from  the 
box.  As  we  entered  the  gate  we  met  welcome  No.  1, 
in  the  form  of  a  great  flag  flying  from  a  staff  in  front 
of  the  house,  a  thing  which  had  never  happened  before, 
and  never  happened  after  that  visit.  Then  "Old  John" 
drove  down  to  the  stable,  while  we  ascended  the  stairs, 
to  be  met  at  the  top,  where  we  had  the  least  breath  to 
bear  it,  with  welcome  No.  2,  in  the  shape  of  an  explo 
sion  so  heavy  that  it  shook  the  color  out  of  the  cheeks 
and  the  breath  out  of  the  body  of  the  welcomed  lady. 
Seeing  her,  after  two  or  three  desperate  gasps,  recover 


226  A  Silent  Singer 

the  breath  which  had  been  literally  shaken  out  of  her, 
we  looked  at  one  another,  and  all  exclaimed  together  : 
"  John  Hickey ! "  Then  she  understood,  and  falling  into 
a  chair,  she  spread  out  her  hands  on  its  arms,  laid  her 
head  back,  and  laughed — laughed  till  the  tears  came. 
When  she  could  speak  again,  she  remarked:  "What 
a  nice,  kind  old  man,  to  take  so  much  trouble  on  my 
account — but  he  is  a  bit  noisy,  isn't  he,  dear?" 

In  his  preparations  for  this  visit  "  Old  John  "  not 
only  shaved  himself  so  closely  that  he  must  have 
removed  several  layers  of  cuticle  along  with  his  beard, 
but  I  had  a  suspicion  that  he  had  shaved  the  cobble 
stones  about  the  stables  as  well,  so  shining  clean  they 
were,  and  so  hopeless  was  it  to  search  for  a  blade  of 
grass  between  them.  Everything  was  in  precise  order 
down  there,  and  I  guessed  at  once  that  he  wished,  him 
self,  to  show  our  guest  about  his  domain.  At  that  time 
he  had  received  an  injury — was  very  lame,  and  secretly 
suffered  greatly.  I  say  secretly,  yet  we  knew  all  about 
it,  but  it  was  such  a  shame  and  mortification  to  him  to 
have  his  condition  noticed  or  spoken  of  that  we  all  mer 
cifully  pretended  ignorance  at  that  period  of  his  troubles. 
When,  therefore,  we  went  forth  for  a  morning  stroll, 
and  were  showing  Mamma  H —  -  about  the  place,  I 
was  not  surprised  to  see  him  hovering  about,  watching 
for  a  chance  to  capture  the  guest,  and  the  way  he  did 
it  was  very  neat.  There  was  a  tiny  gutter  down  there; 
it  must  have  been  fully  six  inches  broad,  and  as  we 
approached,  "  Old  John,"  tall  and  straight  (what  suffer- 


John  Hickey  :  Coachman  227 

ing  that  forced  straightness  cost  him  Heaven  only 
knows),  stepped  quickly  forward,  and  with  impressive 
politeness  helped  the  lady  across — the  gutter  being  per 
fectly  dry  at  the  time.  But  observe,  this  action  placed 
him  instantly  in  the  position  of  escort  and  guide.  We 
all  recognized  the  fact,  and  took  up  second  fiddles  and 
played  to  "  Old  John's  "  first. 

Perhaps  I  am  sentimental,  but  to  me  it  was  rather 
touching  to  see  how  quickly  these  two  old  people  recog 
nized  each  other — one  a  lady  born,  the  other  brought 
up  to  servitude,  but  each  touched  with  the  fine  mystery 
of  old  age.  With  all  her  gentle  dignity,  he  knew  she 
took  a  real  interest  in  him,  and  he  gave  her  a  passionate 
gratitude  for  her  evident  comprehension  of  the  pains 
and  penalties  time  exacted  of  him.  On  her  part,  she 
saw  at  a  glance  the  honesty,  the  courage  of  the  man, 
and  his  great,  kind  heart,  and  knew  him  to  be  as  inno 
cent  as  a  little  child  of  intentional  presumption — knew 
that  his  forwardness  was  the  result  of  his  loving  desire 
to  do  something  to  give  pleasure  to  the  family.  And 
so  it  came  to  pass  that  they  paced  about  here,  there,  and 
yonder — he  showing  her  the  horses,  the  framed  pedi 
grees  of  my  little  dogs,  two  or  three  wonderful  litho 
graphs  of  myself  (all  framed  at  his  own  expense),  and 
finally  presented  her  with  a  receipt  for  a  certain  lini 
ment  for  a  shoulder-strain  in  horses,  and,  having  com 
pleted  the  round,  he  brought  her  back  to  us  with  great 
pride  and  dignity. 

I  never  knew  a  man  who  loved  flowers  with  such  ten- 


228  A  Silent  Singer 

derness  as  did  this  queer,  old  coachman.  His  garden, 
principally  laid  out  in  lard-pails,  tomato-cans,  and  an 
occasional  soap-box,  filled  my  heart  with  envy  by  its 
astounding  mass  of  beautiful  bloom.  Even  the  gard 
eners  used  to  grunt  unwilling  admission  of  his  wonder 
ful  luck.  'Twas  all  fish  that  came  to  John's  net.  Sun 
flowers  or  daisies,  lilies  or  morning-glories,  pinks  or 
japonicas — everything  he  could  beg,  buy  or  pick  up — 
he  so  craved,  so  longed  for  flowers.  As  a  chicken  will 
rush  for  a  crust  of  bread,  so  would  u  Old  John  "  rush 
when  sick  or  dying  plants  were  cast  from  the  green 
house.  He  always  gathered  them  up  and  carried  them 
out  of  sight,  to  make  his  examinations  in  private  and 
decide  upon  the  course  of  treatment  necessary.  A  bit 
later  he  could  be  seen,  happy  and  perspiring,  filling  yet 
another  lard-pail  with  leaf -mould,  etc.,  a  big  dog  on 
each  side  watching  with  restless,  inquiring  eyes  each 
movement,  and  sniffing  with  infinite  curiosity  at  every 
article  used,  while  John  worked  on  and  conversed 
affably  with  them  all  the  time  about  the  nature  of  the 
plant  and  his  hopes  for  its  future.  One  of  his  great 
successes  was  the  wonderful  restoration  to  life  and 
opulent  beauty  of  a  pair  of  castaway  begonias,  almost 
leafless,  entirely  yellow,  and  sick  unto  death.  They 
were  thrown  out  bodily,  and  when  "  Old  John"  picked 
them  up  he  was  greeted  with  a  roar  of  laughter  from 
the  gardener.  The  old  man  was  nettled,  but  he  only 
remarked  :  "  Suppose  ye  wait  a  bit  now,  and  by-and-by 
I'll  be  laughin'  with  ye — perhaps*" 


John  Hickey:  Coachman  229 

A  long  time  after,  as  he  helped  me  dismount  one 
day,  he  asked  me  "  wouldn't  I  go  down  to  his  room  a 
minute,  he  wanted  to  show  me  something." 

And  there,  in  riotous  health  and  beauty,  stood  two 
rarely  fine  begonias,  presenting  a  mass  of  foliage  and  a 
prodigality  of  bloom  only  to  be  found  in  "  Old  John's  " 
garden.  1  was  frankly  envious,  to  his  great  pride. 
One  plant  was  loaded  with  great,  coral-like  clusters. 
The  other  dripped  clear,  white,  waxen  blossoms  from 
trembling  pink  stems,  and  wore  such  an  air  of  united 
purity  and  abundance,  that,  almost  without  thought,  I 
exclaimed :  "  That  flower  should  be  dedicated  to  the 
Virgin  Mary !  "  John  gave  me  a  startled  glance,  and 
said,  "Why-y-y,  why,  madam  !  you're  a  Protestant !" 

"  Well  ?  "  I  asked,  "  and  because  I  am  a  Protestant 
am  I  to  be  denied  the  privilege  of  loving  and  honoring 
the  immaculate  mother  of  our  Lord  ?  " 

Now,  I  had  long  known  that  there  was  something 
wrong  between  my  poor,  old  chap  and  his  Church — the 
servants  declaring  that  he  was  no  Catholic,  or  even 
that  he  was  an  unbeliever.  "Old  John  Hickey?" 
Why,  Catholicism  was  born  in  him !  It  was  in  the  blood 
of  his  veins,  in  the  marrow  of  his  bones.  No  matter 
how  harshly  he  might  speak  of  his  Church,  nor  how 
long  he  might  neglect  his  duties,  almost  unknown  to 
himself,  down  in  the  bottom  of  his  heart  the  old  faith 
lived,  warm  and  strong,  and  it  only  needed  an  emerg 
ency  to  make  him  turn  to  the  Mother  Church  as  trust 
ingly  as  a  babe  would  turn  to  its  mother. 


230  A  Silent  Singer 

I  found  that  "  Old  John,"  in  his  fancied  quarrel  with 
the  Church,  had  suffered  cruelly.  He  had  neglected 
his  duties,  and  had  then  been  unhappy  because  of  that 
neglect.  He  was  very  bitter  and  deeply  wounded,  and 
that  day  he  exclaimed  sadly :  "  It's  hard,  madam — it's 
hard  that  a  man  should  be  made  to  lose  his  soul !  " 

"Never  say  that  again,  John  !"  I  cried.  "  There  is 
just  one  man  created  who  can  lose  your  soul  for  you, 
and  that  man  is  John  Hickey  !  " 

He  looked  at  me  a  moment,  then  putting  one  fore 
finger  on  my  arm  he  asked,  solemnly :  "  Madam  Clara, 
are  you  talking  as  a  Catholic  or  as  a  Protestant,  now?" 

Laugh  I  had  to,  though  I  saw  it  hurt  the  poor, 
bewildered  one  before  me  and  belied  the  tears  in  my 
own  eyes.  But  I  made  answer  quickly:  "  I'm  speak 
ing  neither  as  Catholic  nor  Protestant,  but  simply  as  a 
woman,  who,  like  yourself,  has  a  soul,  and  does  not 
want  to  lose  it!  Don't  look  so  unhappy!  Your 
Church  is  beautiful,  great  and  powerful,  but  there  is 
One  who  is  greater,  more  beautiful  and  more  powerful. 
In  all  the  ages  there  has  been  but  One  who  left  the 
unspeakable  joy  of  Heaven  to  come  to  earth  to  suffer 
and  toil,  to  love  and  lose,  to  hope  and  despair,  and 
finally  to  give  up  His  perfect  life  to  an  ignominious 
death,  because  His  boundless  love  saw  no  other  way  to 
save  us  from  the  horror  of  eternal  death !  He  paid 
too  great  a  price  for  souls  to  cast  them  easily  away. 
There  is  but  one  Saviour  for  us  all,  be  we  what  we  may! 
There  is  but  one  God  whose  smile  makes  Heaven.  We 


John  Hickey:  Coachman  231 

travel  by  different  paths — oh,  yes !  We  wear  different 
liveries,  some  showing  the  gorgeous  vestments  of  the 
stately  Catholic,  some  the  solemn  drab  of  the  Quaker, 
others  black  robes.  But  the  paths  all  lead  to  the  one 
place,  and  the  great  questions  are,  do  we  love  the  One 
we  seek,  and  have  we  loved  and  helped  those  we  trav 
eled  with?  John,  make  Christ  your  Church,  and  the 
mightiest  cannot  harm  you !  "  and,  catching  up  the 
scant  fold  of  my  riding-habit,  I  turned  and  fled  from 
the  only  sermon  I  ever  preached  in  my  life,  while  from 
behind  me  came  certain  familiar  sentences,  such  as,  "Yis, 
yis  !  Ye're  fine  horses,  that  ye  are,  but  it's  too  soon  for 
water  yit,  y'r  know,  because,"  etc.,  etc.,  but  all  spoken 
in  so  husky  a  voice  it  might  have  been  a  stranger's. 

Anxious,  economical  old  body,  from  the  early  fall 
he  began  to  watch  over  the  welfare  of  our  house.  We, 
sleeping  in  it,  knew  no  sooner  of  a  loosened  shutter 
than  did  "Old  John,"  who  immediately  began  a  still-hunt 
for  the  offender.  But  his'  drollest  habit,  I  think,  was 
the  making  of  a  slow,  close  search  over  all  the  grounds, 
and  even  out  into  the  road,  after  every  storm,  seeking 
for  possible  slates  torn  from  the  roof.  On  one  of  my 
homecomings  from  a  long  season  he  met  me  with  a 
small  bill  for  mending  the  roof,  and  he  anxiously 
explained  that  he  did  it,  he  knew,  without  orders,  but 
if  he  hadn't,  it  would  have  got  worse  and  made  a  leak 
and  would  have  ruined  thousands  of  dollars'  worth  of 
beautiful  frocks  up  there !  Please  bear  in  mind  that 
the  figures  mentioned  are  "  Old  John's,"  not  mine. 


232  A  Silent  Singer 

I  assured  him  it  was  all  right.  I  thought  his  face 
would  clear,  but  no,  not  yet.  He  carefully  produced 
a  large,  flat  package  from  under  his  table,  and  when  the 
package  was  gravely  opened,  there  lay  a  collection  of 
broken  slates.  John  had  saved  them  all  as  his  wit 
nesses,  and  he  would  take  up  the  best  of  them  and 
explain:  "  If  it  had  broken  this  way,  instead  of  that 
way,  it  might  have  been  replaced,  but  as  it  was,  do  you 
think  now,  ma'am,  that  I  could  have  done  any  differ 
ent  ? "  The  second  assurance  satisfied  him,  and  his 
face  resumed  its  usual  contented  look. 

So  we  all  moved  our  wonted  ways  until  that  lovely 
spring  day,  when  a  pale-faced  messenger  ran  up  to  the 
house  to  say,  "Oh,  madam!  Old  John  has  had  a  fall, 
and  he's  hurt  bad !  " 

I  thrust  my  feet  into  a  pair  of  bedroom  slippers, 
being  myself  ill  at  the  time,  flung  a  loose  gown  about 
me,  and,  with  my  mother,  hurried  with  all  possible 
speed  down  to  the  stable.  He  was  stretched  out — not 
sitting — in  a  horribly  unnatural  position  on  a  chair. 
His  face  was  ghastly,  his  eyes  dim,  his  pulse  almost 
unfindable.  I  gave  him  a  stimulant,  praying  inwardly 
that  I  might  not  be  doing  wrong.  I  learned  from  the 
others  that  he  had  washed  the  pony  phaeton,  and  was 
pushing  it  backward  to  its  place  when  he  had  slipped 
and  fallen  heavily,  face  forward,  on  those  cruel  cobble 
stones. 

I  was  convinced  he  was  seriously  injured,  and  leav 
ing  my  mother  attending  to  his  wants  and  directing 


John  Hickey:  Coachman  233 

the  men  how  to  get  him  to  his  room,  I  hurried  back  to 
the  house,  wishing  at  every  step  that  my  husband  would 
come,  and  hastily  telephoned  for  the  doctor.  When 

the  doctor  and  Mr.  H were  both  on  the  spot  and 

I  could  retire  to  the  background,  I  was  surprised  at 
my  feeling  of  profound  depression.  "  Old  John  "  had 
had  two  falls  far  and  away  worse  than  this  one,  but 
that  look  on  his  face,  it  was  neither  age  nor  pain — 
though  both  were  there — that  so  impressed  me.  It 
was  a  look  of  hopeless  finality,  and  accepting  it  as  a 
warning,  I  hastened  to  inquire  if  John  would  see  a 
priest,  and  lo  !  as  I  had  thought,  the  old  faith  was 
warm  within  him,  since  he  answered  readily  that  he'd 
see  the  priest,  if  we  would  be  so  kind. 

But  here  the  doctor  interfered,  saying  he  should  pre 
fer  the  patient  to  be  kept  quiet,  and  to  my  eager  pro 
test  made  answer :  "  He  is  really  safe  for  the  night ; 
the  morning  will  tell  whether  he  is  fatally  injured  or 
not,  and  I  promise  I  will  give  you  ample  notice." 

And  so  I  opened  my  ears  to  reason,  and  shut 
them  hard  and  close  against  that  still,  small  voice 
that  cried,  "  Send !  send !  "  and  kept  repeating  the 
two  words  I  had  seen  written  upon  that  stricken, 
old  face  :  "  The  end !  the  end !  "  In  a  conflict  between 
reason  and  instinct  I  have  always  found  instinct  to  be 
right,  but,  alas !  I  yielded  to  reason  that  time. 

Down  in  "  Old  John's  "  room  all  had  been  arranged 
for  the  night.  The  gardener  was  to  sit  up  for  the 
next  three  hours,  then  my  husband  would  come  down 


234  A  Silent  Singer 

and  watch  the  rest  of  the  night.  To  the  patient  this 
was  an  arrangement  of  such  outrageous  impropriety  and 
so  exciting  that  it  had  seemingly  to  be  abandoned.  The 
lamp  was  shaded  carefully,  an  open  watch  lay  on  the 
table  by  the  medicine-bottle,  glass  and  spoon,  and  all 
were  neighbored  by  a  pitcher  of  lemonade. 

Lying  on  the  floor  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  was  the 
great  dog  John  had  reared  from  puppyhood,  and  in  the 
corner,  in  the  seat  of  the  old  rocking-chair,  three  calmly- 
confident  cats  lay  sleeping.  It  was  all  so  quiet  that 
when  the  sick  man  spoke  even  his  weak  tones  could  be 
heard  plainly. 

"  Mr.  H ,  will  you  be  thanking  the  ladies  for 

their  goodness  to  me,  and  if  you  please,  sir,  could  me 
room  be  made  proper-like  before  either  of  them  might 
be  looking  in  to-morrow?" 

The  promise  was  given.  Then,  after  a  moment,  he  said: 
"  If  you  please,  sir,  would  yer  be  asking  the  man  to  keep 
the  door  ajar  a  bit  through  the  night,  that  the  dog  might 
have  his  freedom  ?  Yer  see  he's  used  to  it,  sir." 

This  promise  also  was  given,  and  John  lay  quiet  for 
some  minutes.  Suddenly  his  face  became  troubled, 
and  once  more  he  opened  his  weary  eyes,  and  looking 
up  at  his  long-time  employer,  he  anxiously  asked:  "Sir, 
has  any  one  had  the  sense  to  bring  down  the  flag?" 

And  said  employer,  knowing  nothing  whatever  about 
it,  but  anxious  only  to  quiet  the  patient's  mind, 
answered,  "  Yes,  the  flag  is  down,"  though  at  that 
moment  it  was  hanging  limp  at  the  staff. 


John  Hickey  :  Coachman  235 

u John,  would  you  like   a   drink   of  water?"  asked 
my  husband,  finally. 

"  Yes,  if  you'll  be  so  kind,  sir."     (Pause.) 
"  Do  you  wish  for  anything  else,  John  ?  " 
"For  nothing  in  the  world,  sir."     (Another  pause.) 
Then  after  a  faint  movement  or  two :  "  Sir,  per 
haps  you'll  be  kind  enough  to  help  me  raise  my  right 
hand?" 

The  heavy,  nearly  helpless  hand  was  raised  and  laid 
gently  across  his  breast.     He  gave  a  sigh  of  seeming 
contentment  and  closed  his  eyes. 
"Is  that  all,  John?" 
"That's  all,  sir." 
"  Good-night,  then,  John  !  " 
"  Good-night,  sir !  "  he  tenderly  replied. 
And  my  husband  turned  and  walked  quietly  out  of 
the  room,  to  make  his  report  to  me,  who,  anxious  and 
foreboding,  was  awaiting  him.     At  the  lifting  of  "  Old 
John's  "  hand  I  burst  into  tears.     Ah !    I  thought,  he 
needed  no  man's  help  to  lift  that  brawny  right  hand  of 
his  when  he  swore  allegiance  to  the  Constitution  of  the 
United  States,  or  later  when  he   took  the  solemn  oath 
that   made    him    a    soldier   under   that  beloved  flag, 
beneath  whose  folds  he  now  lay,  old  and  broken !    And 
even  as  the  thought  passed  through  my  mind,  a  handful 
of  pebbles  came  dashing  against  the  window.  We  both 
sprang  forward,  and  looking  down  we  saw  the  terrified 
face  of  the  gardener,  gleaming  white  in  the  moonlight ! 
In  his  fright  he  babbled  Scandinavian  to   us,  but 


236  A  Silent  Singer 

finally  dragged  from  his  unwilling  throat  one  English 
word,  "  Come !  come !  " 

My  husband  rushed  with  him  down  to  the  sick-room, 
and  at  the  moment  of  their  entrance  found  everything 
so  precisely  as  he  had  left  it  that  he  felt  angry  at  the 
man's  stupid  fright.  But  before  he  could  speak,  three 
shadowy,  gray  forms  slipped  from  the  room,  and  the 
dog  rose  slowly,  giving  him  a  sullen,  threatening  look, 
then  turned,  and  resting  his  heavy  jaws  on  the  foot  of 
the  bed,  he  lifted  his  great  voice  in  one  long,  dismal 
howl,  and  dropped  to  his  place  again  upon  the  floor, 
where  he  lay  half  growling,  half  groaning.  Fearing 
that  such  a  noise  would  disturb  the  sick  man,  my  hus 
band  hurried  to  the  bedside,  and,  laying  his  hand  upon 
"Old  John's"  head,  he  stood  dumfounded,  for  from 
the  body  he  touched  life  had  flown  ! 

It  seemed  incredible,  for  he  had  never  moved.  His 
hand  lay  on  his  breast  just  as  it  had  been  placed  there. 
His  face  wore  the  same  look  of  contentment  that  had  come 
to  it  when  he  had  said  he  wished  "  for  nothing  in  the 
world,  sir,"  and  later,  when  he  had  added,  "Good 
night,  sir!  "  having,  at  the  same  time,  bidden  "good 
night  "  to  life  and  the  world. 

So,  surrounded  by  the  tender  care  of  the  family  he 
adored — in  his  bed — under  the  same  roof  that  sheltered 
the  horses  he  had  loved — beneath  the  great  flag  he 
reverenced — with  his  dog  at  his  feet — quiet,  peaceful, 
dignified,  such  was  the  passing  of  John  Hickey,  coach 
man. 


John  Hickey:  Coachman  237 

We  covered  him  with  flowers.  Nothing  was  too 
good  to  be  offered  in  this  last  gift  to  the  man  who  had 
walked  so  far  with  us  along  life's  highway.  I  had 
already  ordered  mass  to  be  said  for  him.  And  then  I 
paid  him  my  last  visit.  I  went  alone,  and  talked  to 
him,  as  foolish  women  will  talk  to  their  dead,  and  told 
him  how  and  why  I  missed  sending  for  the  priest,  and 
while  I  looked  at  him,  I  noticed  for  the  first  time  what 
a  fine  head  he  had,  the  clearness  of  his  profile,  and 
above  all,  the  calm  dignity  of  his  expression.  Slowly, 
like  music,  there  rolled  through  my  memory  certain 
words  of  Holy  Writ :  "  He  raiseth  up  the  poor  out  of 
the  dust,  and  lif teth  the  needy  out  of  the  dunghill ; 
that  He  may  set  him  with  princes,  even  with  the  princes 
of  his  people." 

And  I  knelt  at  the  coffin's  side  and  prayed  for  this 
good  and  faithful  servant  and  friend.  A  little  later  I 
stood  on  the  porch,  and  through  blinding  tears  saw  my 
husband  a  second  time  walk  with  bared  head  by  "  Old 
John's"  side  —  a  second  time  escorting  him  to  a 
home. 

So  he  passed  out  of  my  life,  but  never  will  he  pass 
from  my  memory.  Though  he  left  us  without  "warn 
ing,"  and  asked  for  no  "  recommendation,"  we  cannot 
complain,  since  he  "  bettered  "  himself  in  following  the 
summons  of  the  Great  Master. 


Black  Watch 


Black  Watch 

That  old,  black  "  Watch  "  believed  himself  the  gen 
eral  superintendent  of  John  Tyler's  "back-wood" 
farm,  as  well  as  the  guardian  of  his  family,  no  one 
could  doubt  who  noticed  his  busy  self-importance, 
from  the  candle-light  breakfast  till  the  eight  o'clock 
retirement  of  the  family.  Then,  only,  he  felt  free  to 
visit  the  secret  repository  of  the  few  bones  he  had 
acquired,  or  to  take  a  run  down  the  road,  and  through 
the  woods,  to  pick  a  fight  with  the  only  dog  of  his 
weight  to  be  found  within  a  ten-mile  radius. 

I  should  not  like  to  say,  off-hand,  just  what  breed 
"Watch"  represented,  but  he  was  black  all  over — was 
short-haired,  heavy-built,  and  mastiff-like  in  head  and 
chest.  One  ear  had  been  injured  in  a  fight  with  city 
dogs,  and  it  lopped  helplessly  ever  after,  while  the  good 
ear  seemed  doubly  quick  and  perky  by  comparison. 

Now,  it  was  this  faithful  creature's  clear,  brown  eyes 
that  were  first  to  discover  something  wrong  about  young 
Mrs.  Tyler.  I  don't  suppose  he  knew  she  had  worked 
to  the  breaking  point — that  five  babies,  with  barely  a 
year  separating  one  birth-day  from  another,  were  enough 
to  break  the  high  ambition  with  which  she  had  begun 
her  life,  here  in  the  woods,  helping  in  rough,  out-door 
work,  as  well  as  trying  to  make  a  comfortable  home  for 
her  husband.  And  now,  that  another  little  one  was 
expected,  her  songs  had  ceased,  and  often  she  would,  in 


242  A  Silent  Singer 

the  midst  of  her  work,  stop  and  stand,  with  eyes  fixed 
on  vacancy,  a  heavy  frown  on  her  face  that  had  always 
before  been  so  bright  and  kindly  in  expression. 

"  Watch,"  alone,  noticed  this.  The  children  were 
too  little,  and  John  Tyler  too  busy,  and  the  brown  eyes 
would  study  the  clouded  face  until  he  could  bear  his 
trouble  in  silence  no  longer,  and  he  would  whimper, 
and  push  his  cold,  damp  nose  into  her  hand,  but  instead 
of  the  pat  he  expected,  he  several  times  received  a  sharp 
rebuke  that  made  him  lower  head  and  tail  and  retire 
fully  five  feet  from  her,  where  he  sat  and  rapped  out  a 
faint,  deprecating  "  tattoo  "  on  the  bare  floor  with  his 
tail. 

Sometimes  he  would  rush  oat  and  find  his  master, 
and  climb  up  and  put  his  paws  on  his  breast  and  whine, 
and  look  back  at  the  house,  and  John  would  say: 
"  What  the  deuce  is  the  matter,  '  Watch '  ?  I  don't  know 
what  you  want!"  and  the  man  that  "helped"  would 
say:  "Oh,  he's  got  something  tree'd,  I  s'pose,  and 
wants  you  to  go  help  him  !" 

Then  the  baby  arrived,  and  John  Tyler  began  to 
understand  that  an  awful  thing  had  happened.  His 
wife's  mind  was  certainly  clouded — she  was,  in  country 
parlance,  "not  right,"  and  worst  of  all  she  had  a  mortal 
hatred  for  the  poor,  little  new-comer.  She  could  hardly 
force  herself  to  give  it  the  commonest  care,  and  many  a 
time  its  wails  reached  the  father  beyond  the  house,  and 
only  when  he  entered  would  the  mother  sullenly  take 
the  child  and  care  for  it,  "  Watch,"  though  he  was 


Black  Watch  243 

the  most  active  of  farm  dogs,  took  in  the  situation  at 
once,  and  calmly  assumed  the  position  of  nurse  to  the 
detested  baby. 

Never  before  had  he  been  known  to  get  on  the  bed, 
but  now  he  jumped  on  it  every  day  and  curled  himself 
up  beside  the  little  unfortunate,  and  many  a  time  when 
she  cried  he  would  stand  over  her  and  gravely  lick  her 
tiny  face  until  she  stopped,  to  stare  at  him  in  wonder. 

He  did  not  wholly  neglect  his  other  duties.  He  saw 
to  the  proper  watering  of  the  stock,  night  and  morning, 
taking  a  few  laps  of  the  water  himself,  as  if  he  were 
testing  it.  He  led  the  horses  to  the  field  to  plow,  or 
to  the  woods  "to  haul,"  as  the  case  might  be,  running 
anxiously  ahead  to  see  that  the  road  was  clear,  and  then 
ambling  back  to  bark  at  their  heels  a  few  times  before 
making  a  circle  about  the  wagon  and  trotting  under 
neath  it  a  few  minutes,  to  make  quite  sure  the  running 
gear  was  all  right. 

Neither  did  the  two  eldest  of  the  children  succeed  in 
getting  to  the  small  creek  flowing  at  the  back  of  the 
house,  without  his  companionship,  though  he  knew 
well  he  would  be  sent  into  the  water  by  them  for  about 
a  peck  of  chips,  after  which  they  were  absolutely  cer 
tain  to  try  to  ride  him  home.  Still,  it  had  been  his 
habit  to  watch  the  road  closely  for  any  traveling  dog, 
at  sight  of  whom  he  would  rush  forth  with  waving  tail, 
and  after  due  investigation  of  his  quality,  would  either 
challenge  him  to  mortal  combat,  or  invite  him  inside 
the  gate  to  converse  about  the  state  of  the  roads  and 


244  A  Silent  Singer 

the  scarcity  of  rabbits,  etc.  But  when  the  family 
trouble  began,  he  gave  such  pleasures  up  and  turned 
all  his  attention  to  his  people. 

So  the  day  came  when  John  Tyler  was  compelled  to 
go  to  town,  a  great  city  now,  but  then  a  struggling, 
little  town  on  the  edge  of  a  marsh.  He  dared  not 
leave  his  wife  alone  with  the  children,  so,  with  great 
difficulty,  he  secured  the  help  of  a  young  girl,  for  a 
couple  of  days,  and  then  with  a  big  load  to  take  and  a 
long  list  of  things  to  bring  back  for  the  winter's  com 
fort,  he  started,  and  was  greatly  surprised  when  old, 
black  "Watch,"  who  always  enjoyed  his  "city"  trip 
so  thoroughly,  after  escorting  him  with  leaps  and  barks 
and  short  rushes  at  nothing  in  particular  for  a  half 
mile,  suddenly  sat  down  by  the  roadside  and  staid  there, 
regardless  of  his  master's  inviting  whistle. 

Back  at  the  house,  the  morning  work  was  no  sooner 
done  than  the  "girl"  was  astonished  to  see  Mrs.  Tyler 
come  from  her  room,  dressed  in  her  Sunday  gown — a 
work-basket  hanging  from  her  arm — and  carrying  the 
hated  baby.  She  briefly  announced  that  she  was  going 
to  visit  her  neighbor.  The  "  girl "  told  her  she  was 
not  strong  enough  for  such  a  tramp,  but  she  muttered 
something  about  "  a  shorter  way,"  which  frightened 
the  girl  into  reminding  her  how  many  wild  animals 
were  still  seen  in  the  woods,  and  Mrs.  Tyler  had  turned 
such  a  white,  angry  face  upon  her,  she  had  not  dared 
to  speak  again,  but,  looking  after  her,  saw  her  twice 
drive  old  "  Watch  "  back,  when  he  tried  to  follow  her. 


Black  Watch  245 

About  one  o'clock  the  Brockway  family  were  sur 
prised  to  see  young  Mrs.  Tyler  at  their  door,  and  were 
amazed  when  they  found  the  baby  was  not  with  her! 
"Oh,"  she  lightly  replied,  "the  girl  was  at  home,  she 
would  look  after  all  the  children."  In  those  days, 
unless  the  mother  died,  all  babes  were  reared  by  the 
simple  rule  devised  by  Mother  Nature — hence  the 
pained  surprise  of  these  kindly  womenfolk  at  the  all- 
day  abandonment  of  so  young  a  child. 

As  the  day  wore  on,  Mrs.  Tyler  grew  more  and  more 
absent-minded,  and  finally  her  work  fell  to  her  lap,  and 
she  sat  in  perfect  silence.  Suddenly  she  clasped  her 
head  in  her  hands,  she  looked  wildly  from  one  face  to 
another,  then  down  to  her  lap,  when,  with  a  shriek,  she 
sprang  to  her  feet,  and  rushing  into  the  next  room 
began  throwing  on  her  wraps,  all  the  time  moaning : 
"Oh,  my  God!  Oh,  my  God!  help  me — help  me!" 

She  paid  no  attention  whatever  to  remonstrances  or 
questions  !  They  begged  her  to  wait — they  would  har 
ness  up  and  take  her  home !  She  seemed  not  to  hear 
them — only  shivered  and  moaned:  "  Oh,  God  help  me !" 
and  tore  away  from  them,  and  out  of  the  house,  and 
one  who  followed  a  little  saw  her  break  into  a  run 
as  soon  as  she  was  out  of  sight  of  the  windows. 

The  women  were  greatly  frightened,  and  calling  one 
of  the  men  from  work,  sent  him  after  her.  He  took 
down  a  gun  and  easily  and  hastily  followed  the  tracks 
her  feet  had  left  in  the  soft  earth  on  that  damp  Novem 
ber  day.  Presently  he  came  upon  her  work-basket, 


246  A  Silent  Singer 

abandoned  at  the  point  where,  by  climbing  the  fence, 
she  could  leave  the  regular  road  and  make  a  cross-cut 
through  a  strip  of  dense  woodland.  He  frowned  blackly 
as  he  picked  it  up,  saying  to  himself :  "  She  must  be 
clean  crazy  to  go  through  there  alone !  Why  on  earth 
didn't  she  bring  old,  black  '  Watch '  with  her  ?  He 
could  bluff  four  times  his  weight  in  wild-cat,  fox, 
snake,  or  even  in  bear-skin !  But  alone  and  sick  ! 
Good  Lord!"  and  so  grumbling  to  himself,  but  with 
eye,  ear  and  hand  alert,  he  followed  the  woman,  who 
still  kept  ahead  of  him,  until,  as  he  was  approaching  a 
sudden  glen-like  opening  in  the  woods,  he  was  startled 
by  a  piercing  scream,  followed  by  the  agonized  cry  of: 
"  Oh,  my  God !  help  me !  help  me  !"  and  plunging  for 
ward,  he  came  upon  Mrs.  Tyler,  who,  in  hastily  trying 
to  clamber  over  a  fallen  tree,  had  been  caught  and  was 
held  firmly  by  her  clothing,  and  though  she  fought 
madly  to  free  herself,  he  noticed  she  never  took  her 
eyes,  for  one  instant,  from  some  object  beyond  him. 

Following  the  direction  of  her  glance — he  stood 
stupefied.  Almost  in  the  center  of  an  opening  stood 
one  noble,  hickory  tree,  and  on  the  damp  earth  at  its 
foot  lay  a  small,  white  bundle  from  which  there  came, 
now  and  then,  faint,  hoarse  wails  of  utter  exhaustion, 
while,  with  sturdy  legs  planted  stiffly  astride  of  the 
abandoned  baby,  stood  old,  black  "Watch" — a  dog  on 
guard ! 

From  the  base  of  his  skull  to  the  root  of  his  tail 
every  separate  hair  bristled  fiercely  up.  His  forehead 


Black  Watch  247 

wrinkled  wickedly !  His  eyes  glowed  with  a  hot,  red 
fire,  while  he  drew  his  lips  back  savagely,  laying  bare 
every  tooth  he  owned  in  the  world. 

Just  as  young  Brockway  was  about  to  speak, 
"  Watch  "  half-wheeled  about  and  gave  tongue,  for  the 
first  time,  in  one  snarling,  half-strangled  bark,  and,  fol 
lowing  the  movement  of  the  dog  with  his  eyes,  the 
young  fellow,  for  the  first  time,  realized  the  true  horror 
of  the  situation,  when  in  the  dense  undergrowth  oppo 
site  he  saw  a  lumbering  shape — caught  a  glimpe  of 
pig-like  eyes — a  flash  of  white,  sharp  tushes,  and  heard 
a  faint  grunt  from  the  brownish-black  mass,  as  its 
clumsy  half-trot  carried  it  into  the  depths  of  the 
forest. 

There  was  one  shot  sent  wild  by  a  trembling  hand, 
and,  almost  in  the  same  moment,  a  loud,  long  r — r — 
rip,  r — r — rip,  r — r — ripping  of  clothing  and  stitches 
was  heard,  and  a  woman's  slender  figure  went  flying 
across  the  opening,  and  Mrs.  Tyler  flung  herself  upon 
her  knees,  crying :  u  Give  her  to  me, 4  Watch ' !  Oh,  give 
her  to  me!" 

Yet,  before  her  hand  could  touch  the  child,  the  dog 
turned  upon  her  savagely,  while  she,  seemingly  beyond 
all  personal  fear,  threw  her  arms  about  his  rigid  neck, 
pressing  her  agonized,  white  face  against  his  black 
head  and  fiercely  opened,  slavering  jaws,  while  she 
pleaded  humbly  :  "  Forgive  me,  'Watch' !  I  know  I  do 
not  deserve  it — and  you  know  just  what  I  meant  should 
happen!  But,  forgive  me,  'Watch,'  for  her  sake!  Give 


248  A  Silent  Singer 

her  to  me,  honest,  brave,  old  'Watch' !  I  promise  you 
I  will  love  her  all  my  life  long !" 

He  held  himself  very  stiff  within  her  circling  arms 
for  a  moment,  looking  hard  into  her  eyes,  then  suddenly 
he  brightened  visibly — gave  her  one  all-comprehensive 
caress  reaching  from  chin  to  brow — and  gently,  cau 
tiously  stepping  backward,  left  the  piteous  bundle 
within  the  reach  of  her  hungry  hands.  'Watch'  first 
looked  across  at  Brockway  and  wagged  a  courteous 
greeting  to  him,  then  he  stretched  himself,  both  fore 
and  aft,  and  yawned  great,  loud,  throat-revealing  yawns 
that  went  far  to  show  how  long  a  time  his  muscles  and 
his  nerves  had  been  kept  taut  and  on  the  strain. 

Meantime,  the  first  loving  kiss,  the  first  sweet 
mother-kiss  that  blesses  where  it  rests,  had  been  given, 
and  under  cover  of  the  all-concealing,  matronly  shawl 
of  that  period,  the  baby  had  established  communication 
with  the  quick-lunch-counter  Dame  Nature  superin 
tended. 

Mrs.  Tyler  needed  young  Brockway 's  help  in  getting 
home,  after  the  shock  she  had  received,  and  at  the 
beginning  of  their  long  walk  his  horror  of  her  was 
so  evident  that,  in  self  defence,  she  told  him  part  of 
her  story,  and  with  such  effect  that  there  were  tears 
in  the  lad's  eyes  when  he  tried  to  realize  what  those 
dreadful  months  must  have  been — during  which  she 
could  not  recall  ever  to  have  seen  the  sun — could  not 
remember  any  act  of  her  own  doing,  all  that  time — 
save  that  one  awful  act !  —  was  only  conscious  of  one 


Black  Wateh  249 

desire — to  destroy  this  child,  because  its  coming  would 
prevent  her  husband  from  making  the  regular  payment 
on  the  farm,  and  he  might  lose  it  and  be  ruined — so 
she  watched  and  waited  for  a  chance  to  abandon  the 
baby  to  the  wild  animals — that  she  might  thus  save 
the  farm  and  family — and  he  rejoiced  with  her,  as  she 
told  of  how,  suddenly  at  his  home,  she  had  had  a  loud, 
rushing  sound  in  her  ears,  the  sunlight  had  become 
visible  to  her,  she  had  looked  at  her  lap  for  her  baby, 
and  then  remembered  she  had  left  it  in  the  woods  to 
be  devoured !  How  she  had  run — how  she  had  prayed, 
and  God  had  been  merciful ! — and  he,  Brockway,  would 
not  hate  and  fear  her  now — would  he?  and  he  would 
not  speak  of  this  any  more  than  he  could  help? — and 
oh,  was  not  black  "  Watch"  a  hero  to  save  her  darling's 
life  ?  But  the  boy  thought  she  owed  a  good  deal  to  the 
condition  of  the  bear.  It  was  fat  and  sleek — well  fed, 
and  therefore  good-natured.  Had  it  been  rough-coated, 
thin,  hungry  " Watch"  would  have  probably  given  his 
life — and  in  vain  !  And  then,  at  her  gasping  cry  at 
such  a  suggestion,  he  had,  with  rustic,  bashful  awkard- 
ness,  "reckon'd  he  was  a  plumb  fool  at  talking  and 
would  she  please  just  not  count  that  in  at  all?"  and  so 
had  left  her  safely  at  her  kitchen-door,  while  "Watch," 
dropping  the  work-basket  he  had  carried  home,  escorted 
the  young  man  a  short  distance  down  the  road,  then, 
taking  a  jaunty  farewell  of  him,  gave  himself  up  to  a 
careful  and  thorough  smelling  of  apparently  the  entire 
farm  and  all  its  implements.  Of  course  it  was  trouble- 


250  A  Silent  Singer 

some,  but  it  was  the  only  trustworthy  way  of  finding 
exactly  what  had  been  done  during  his  absence  and 
that  of  his  master. 

Late  that  night,  John  Tyler,  tired,  chilled  and 
anxious,  drove  home,  and  was  met  some  distance  down 
the  road  by  old,  black  "Watch,"  carrying  a  lighted 
lantern,  and  prancing  and  plunging  about  so  joyously 
that  the  lantern  light  seemed  like  some  small  animal 
running  along  the  road,  gliding  under  bushes,  even 
darting  up  tree  trunks  occasionally  in  its  efforts  to  escape 
the  pursuing  dog.  The  man  was  surprised,  for  he  felt 
that  only  his  wife  would  have  given  "Watch"  that  light, 
and  the  surprise  was  pleasant  to  him. 

Then  he  unharnessed,  watered,  fed  and  bedded  down 
the  weary  horses,  eagerly  assisted  by  "Watch,"  who 
seemed  to  be  in  absolutely  puppyish  high  spirits.  Why, 
even  when  he  had  with  such  frantic  violence  declared  the 
presence  of  a  burglar  in  the  far  corner  where  the  har 
ness  hung  and  Mr.  Tyler  was  compelled  to  pull  down 
and  show  to  him  the  old  blanket  he  was  mistaking  for 
a  burglar  (a  thing  he  had  never  seen  in  his  life  and 
only  heard  of  from  a  city  dog  following  his  master's 
buggy  the  summer  before) — even  then  he  was  neither 
humiliated  nor  cast  down,  but  had,  as  was  his  wont, 
slid  into  the  stall  of  gray  "  Billy"  (the  oldest  and  best 
horse  on  the  place),  and,  standing  up  by  the  manger, 
proceeded,  with  both  paws,  to  dig  for  some  sort  of  small 
game  in  "Billy's"  shoulder.  Then  the  horse  laid  back 
his  ears,  opened  his  mouth  and  bit  at  "  Watch,"  who  bit 


Black  Watch  251 

back  at  him — their  teeth  sometimes  clicking  sharply 
together,  to  their  seeming  great  delight.  And  this 
continued  until  the  low  whistle  of  the  man  separated 
the  friends  and  play-fellows,  and  master  and  dog  went 
to  the  house  together,  leaving  the  closed  stable  filled 
with  humble  rustic  music,  the  rhythmic,  melodious 
expression  of  utter  content,  of  comfort  won,  that  is  pro 
duced  by  the  crunch — crunch — crunch  of  great,  white 
teeth  grinding  silvery-yellow  oats  or  crushing  the 
brittle  sweetness  of  the  orange-colored  corn.  Listen ! 
Count !  One,  two,  three,  crunch — crunch — crunch,  now 
a  long,  deep,  soft  sigh,  then  crunch — crunch — crunch ! 

At  the  house  John  met  another  surprise.  He  had 
expected  to  hunt  about  in  semi-darkness  for  the  bread- 
crock  and  the  butter  or  molasses,  or  anything  almost, 
and  take  a  "  cold  bite,"  and  go  to  bed,  but  here  was  as 
good  a  supper  ready  for  him  as  the  limited  contents  of 
their  very  primitive  larder  would  allow,  and  oh !  - 
crowning  grace  of  an  American  farmer's  meal — it 
was  hot ! 

Only  pork,  white,  firm,  sweet  as  a  nut,  crisply  and 
amiably  sharing  the  same  small  frying  pan  with  the 
sliced  potatoes!  Hot  "  corn-dodger"  and  hotter  coffee! 
But  oh,  beyond  these  comforts  there  was  a  look  in  the 
wife's  hazel  eyes,  a  clear,  bright,  straight  look  that 
shook  his  very  heart — it  was  so  like  the  good  days  of 
the  past ! 

When  supper  was  over,  and  " Watch  "  was  carefully 
separating  his  bits  of  corn-bread  with  gravy  on  them 


252  A  Silent  Singer 

from  those  bits  which  had  none,  and  after  the  manner 
of  his  race,  eating  the  best  portions  first,  Mrs.  Tyler 
came  to  her  husband  and  put  one  arm  about  his  neck, 
while  with  the  other  she  closely  cuddled  the  baby  to 
her  side.  As  John  stood  looking  down  on  them,  he 
felt  it  was  for  him  a  blessed  sight,  and  bent  to  kiss 
her ;  but  she  avoided  the  caress,  and  hiding  her  face  on 
his  breast,  she  made  a  full  confession. 

Perhaps  it  was  as  well  that  she  could  not  see  the 
pallor  of  his  face  as  she  told  of  the  hours  the  baby  lay 
abandoned  in  the  woods,  nor  the  drops  of  perspira 
tion  on  his  brow  as  she  described  the  bear  in  the 
thicket  and  old,  black  "  Watch's "  furious  defence 
of  the  helpless  little  one.  The  silence  that  followed 
her  plea  for  forgiveness  was  for  a  few  moments  broken 
only  by  "  Watch."  He  had  sat  bolt  upright  before 
them,  watching  their  faces  closely  with  his  honest,  brown 
eyes,  and  now  he  sniffed  and  snuffled,  as  though  on  the 
verge  of  tears,  while  with  persuasive  tail  he  rapped  on 
the  bare  floor  so  loudly  that  one  might  have  mistaken 
the  noise  for  the  nailing  down  of  a  carpet. 

John  raised  his  big,  rough  hand  and  smoothed  his 
wife's  hair.  The  clumsy  strokes  were  given  the  wrong 
way,  and  each  one  pulled  harder  and  tangled  worse, 
until  her  brown  locks  were  full  of  what  the  children 
would  have  called  "rats'  nests."  But  the  awkward  caress 
was  sweet  to  her,  as  precious  as  it  was  rare.  Then  he 
said  slowly :  "  Never  do  it  again,  Betsey !  No !  no !  I 
don't  mean  that !  I  mean  never  worry  all  alone  again. 


Black  Watch  253 

If  you  are  anxious  and  troubled  about  the  farm,  money, 
or  any  thing  else,  for  God's  sake,  tell  me  all  about  it,  and 
let  me  share  the  worry !  "  and  he  kissed  her,  and  then 
looking  down  on  "Watch,"  he  said,  gently:  "Thank 
you,  old  man." 

And  then  I  think  he  did  a  curious  thing,  for  you 
must  remember  "Watch"  was  simply  a  farm  dog  who 
had  never  been  taught  one  single  trick  in  all  his  life. 
Yet  now,  when  he  thanked  him,  John  Tyler  offered  him 
his  hand.  "Watch,"  embarrassed  and  confused,  lifted 
and  lowered  his  good  ear  rapidly,  glanced  at  the  hand, 
then  at  his  master's  face,  half-lifted  his  left  foot, 
dropped  it  again,  and  suddenly  raising  his  right,  laid 
the  black  paw  firmly  in  the  extended  hand,  and  gravely, 
unsmilingly ,  John  Tyler  held  it  a  moment  and  repeated : 
"Thank  you,  old  man." 

Ten  minutes  later  the  wooden  bar  was  across  the 
door,  the  candle  was  extinguished,  and  darkness,  silence 
and  peace  descended  upon  the  little,  backwood  home. 

When  I,  the  writer  was  a  little  girl,  a  very,  very  old 
lady  used  on  bright,  fair  days  to  lead  me  down  the 
country  road,  past  many  white  houses  amid  their 
orchards,  and  point  out  a  great,  old  hickory  tree,  and 
tell  me  that  was  the  spot  where  she  had,  in  her  mad 
ness,  left  her  baby,  "  who  is  now  Mrs.  B ,"  she 

would  say. 

But  I  always  had  to  hear  over  again  about  "Watch," 
whom,  the  old  lady  said,  "  had  scratched  and  fit,  and 
killed  'chucks  and  snakes,  and  taken  the  children  to 


254  A  Silent  Singer 

and  from  school  for  eight  years  after  that !  And  then, 
one  night,  he  had  got  up  from  his  mat  and  come 
into  the  bed-room  and  stood  by  the  bed,  and  had  licked 
the  hand  of  his  master,  and  had  gone  back  to  his  mat, 
and  in  the  morning  he  was  quite  dead.  Just  as  if 
Death  knew  he  could  only  get  him  away  from  us  by 
taking  him  in  his  sleep !  " 

And  I  would  lean  against  the  kind,  old  lady,  and  say 
gravely :  "  What  a  pity  he  had  to  die  before  I  was 
born — 1  would  have  loved  '  Watch '  !  " 

And  I  love  his  memory  to-day — brave,  old,  black 
"Watch"! 


Dinah 


Dinah 

Dinah  was  not  "  all  things  to  all  men,"  but  she  was 
everything  to  one  small  girl,  and  a  good  many  things 
to  other  members  of  the  family.  I  think  I  had  better 
say  a  few  words  right  here  about  the  aforesaid  small 
girl.  She  was  an  only  child,  and  so  far  beyond  mere 
prettiness  as  to  be  really  beautiful.  Quick,  clever,  and 
high  spirited,  the  slavish  idolatry  of  her  mother  had 
worked  her  ruin.  Enfant  terrible,  she  was  a  burden 
to  herself,  a  terror  to  all  those  about  her ;  except  dur 
ing  the  rare  absence  of  that  mother,  when,  oh!  the  pity,  the 
shame  of  it !  the  little  Marie  became  obedient,  gracious, 
and  charming ;  as  sweetly  angelic  as  she  was  beautiful. 

To  the  friends  of  the  family  she  was  generally  known 
as  "  Tyler's  vixen,"  "  Tyler's  malicious  imp,"  or  that 
"  pretty  little  devil  of  Tyler's,"  which  seems  to  throw 
considerable  light  upon  her  every-day  manners  and 
behavior.  Now,  it's  almost  needless  to  say  that  this 
child's  path  through  life  had  been  simply  clogged  with 
toys,  foreign  and  domestic,  elaborate  and  simple,  with 
a  strong  leaning  toward  the  most  expensive  in  the 
market.  Even  from  that  early  period  when  she  had 
but  two  desires  on  earth,  one  to  drink  long  and  deep  at 
nature's  fountain,  and  the  other  to  sleep  profoundly, 
they  had  forced  her  to  keep  awake  long  enough  to 
choose  between  a  rattle  of  solid  silver,  with  which  she 
could  easily  have  broken  her  own  wee  head,  or  one  of 


258  A  Silent  Singer 

gold  and  silver  and  coral ;  and  her  anger  being  great, 
she  rejected  both,  and  clutched  at  a  soft  rubber  affair 
with  a  ring  handle,  offered  by  the  nurse  and  positively 
declined  by  the  mother  as  too  awfully  common.  And 
it  was  at  that  point  I  made  the  small  Marie's  acquaint 
ance,  being  led  in  to  look  at  a  baby  that  was  so  wise 
that  it  had  selected  a  ring-handle  rattle,  because  it  knew 
it  would  be  cutting  teeth  by  and  by  and  would  need  the 
ring ;  at  least  that's  what  the  nurse  said.  One  can 
imagine,  then,  what  a  veritable  army  of  dolls  must  have 
fallen  to  the  share  of  this  so  cruelly  spoiled  child. 
Creatures  whose  waxen  beauty  almost  broke  the  hearts 
of  less  favored  lookers-on ,  wardrobes  complete  and 
exquisitely  perfect — packed  in  real  for  true  trunks; 
tiny  sets  of  jewelry  —  toilet-sets  —  parasols  —  fans — 
charming  carriages  for  these  gorgeous  beings  to  ride 
in  ;  blond,  brown,  and  black-haired  dreams  of  bisque, 
china,  and  wax  beauty ;  families — yes,  whole  families 
of  tiny,  Swiss  dolls,  China  dolls — from  one  scant  inch  to 
ten  in  height !  It  was  maddening,  and  Marie  would,  as 
a  wee  tot,  push  away  the  great,  prize  doll,  so  heavy  for 
her  little  arms,  and  bury  her  weary  face  in  the  pillow  and 
whimper  for — she  knew  not  what !  Poor,  little,  blase  baby! 
Always  deprived  of  the  keen  delight  of  wishing  for  a 
thing,  of  the  hope  and  fear  in  waiting,  of  the  thrill  of 
seeing  possibility  become  probability,  and  then  the  rap 
ture  of  possession ! 

One  day  this  happened  in  the  presence  of  a  woman, 
a  sempstress,  who  was  sitting  by  at  work.  She  was  poor 


Dinah  259 

in  pocket,  but  rich  in  knowledge  of  life,  and  kind  of 
heart,  and  she  cried :  "  Oh,  you  poor,  spoiled  child !  If 
you  had  a  nice,  clean  rag-doll,  such  as  any  work 
woman's  child  may  play  with,  you  would,  I  warrant, 
get  more  pleasure  from  it  than  from  any  of  these  big, 
hard,  silk-clothed  ladies  that  you  can't  baby  or  coddle 
to  save  your  life  !  I've  a  good  mind — "  then  she  paused, 
but  the  weary,  little  face,  turned  from  the  splendid  doll 
in  dull  dislike,  brought  her  to  a  determination;  she  went 
on :  "  I'll  have  to  be  quick,  though,  for  her  mother 
would  never  give  her  consent,  never ! "  So  Marie  was 
put  to  sleep,  and  the  sewing-woman  left  her  proper 
occupation  and  worked  hard  and  fast  on  something  else, 
for  this  was  the  day  of  the  creation  of  Dinah. 

And  I  often  ask  myself  this  question :  If  that 
woman  of  bright  intelligence  and  good  will,  acting 
under  the  influence  of  loving  pity  for  an  unhappy  child, 
could  yet  produce  such  a  blood-chilling  "nightmare  as 
Dinah,  what  under  the  blue  canopy  of  Heaven  could 
that  same  woman  produce  if  her  hand  were  directed  by 
hate  or  revenge?  Nothing  short  of  an  eye-crossing, 
world-convulsing  creation,  I'm  sure !  At  all  events,  I 
made  a  picture  of  Dinah,  to  show  a  friend  of  Mrs. 
Tyler,  and  when  she  looked  at  it,  she  had  a  congestive 
chill,  and  it  was  a  good  picture  too. 

Personally,  I  don't  approve  of  written  descriptions  of 
people,  because  they  never  describe.  See  descriptions 
of  lost  people  given  to  detectives,  where  height,  weight, 
and  possible  age  are  dwelt  on  with  great  particularity, 


260  A  Silent  Singer 

while  a  large,  seedy  wart,  mounted  conspicuously  on 
the  bridge  of  his  nose,  or  a  drooping,  partially  paralyzed 
lid  of  the  right  eye  is  never  mentioned.  Then  again, 
though  Dinah  was  no  beauty,  I  felt  so  much  respect  for 
her  powers  of  endurance,  her  silent  patience  under  most 
trying  circumstances,  that  writing  a  personal  descrip 
tion  of  her  becomes  a  painful  task.  However,  if  you 
will  go  back  to  your  earliest  youth  (a  longish  journey 
for  some  of  us,  yes,  but  one  still  easily  made),  and 
recall  the  paper-dolls  of  that  period,  dolls  generally  cut 
from  the  white  margin  of  the  evening-paper  by  the  pur 
loined  scissors  of  that  member  of  the  family  who  most 
objected  to  your  using  them,  you  will  remember  those 
dolls  were  always  cut  in  very  wide  paper  pantalettes, 
modest  but  ugly,  chaste  but  very  inartistic — well,  if  you 
will,  in  your  imagination,  trim  off  the  superfluous  width 
of  those  pantys,  so  as  to  make  legs  instead,  you  will 
have  before  your  mind's  eye  an  excellent  ground  plan 
of  Dinah's  structure. 

The  linen  being  doubled,  and  Dinah  being  all  in  one 
piece,  it  followed  that  she  had  great  strength  of  limb, 
and  never,  even  during  the  stress  and  strain  of  her 
hardest  years,  did  she  lose  either  leg  or  arm.  Yet, 
whenever  the  spoiled  Marie  lost  her  temper,  the  bisque, 
wax,  and  china  beauties  surely  lost  legs  or  arms  or 
eyes,  Mrs.  Tyler  lost  her  head,  and  poor  Mr.  Tyler 
parted  with  his  hopes  of  heaven,  while  Dinah  remained 
whole  and  still  in  one  piece.  When  her  figure  was 
complete,  she  was  about  three  hands  high  and  without 


Dinah  261 

any  sign  of  blood  or  race  about  her.  One  side  of  the 
head  having  been  selected  for  the  back,  because  it  had 
puckered  a  little  in  the  sewing,  it  was  carefully  but 
lavishly  inked,  a  plain  solid  coat  of  ink  behind,  while 
about  the  brow  and  temples  the  ink  formed  those  pre 
cise  scollops,  gracefully  termed  by  the  French  "  water- 
waves."  Then  followed  the  eye-brows,  still  of  ink,  and 
of  fearful  and  wonderful  drawing,  and  below  them — 
eyes  ? — oh,  yes !  eyes  of  course ;  what  else  could  there 
be  beneath  eyebrows  but  eyes?  But  they  certainly 
were  peculiar  eyes ;  there  was  no  wearying  monotony 
about  them,  but  rather  a  pleasing  variety.  One  was,  I 
remember,  quite  nice  and  round,  and  looked  to  the 
front  in  an  honest,  kindly  way,  while  the  other  was 
square  enough  to  have  corners,  and  it  looked  downward 
and  inward,  right  into  that  spot  where,  if  she  had  had 
any  features,  her  nose  would  have  been.  As  to  the 
mouth— I  suppose  I  have  to  mention  it — there  was  so 
much  of  it,  but  I  wish  I  could  be  silent ;  you  see,  the 
linen  was  roughly  woven,  and  here  and  there  a  coarse, 
heavy  thread  appeared,  and  when  the  penf  ul  of  red  ink 
was  applied  it  touched  a  coarse  thread,  which  soaked 
up  the  ink  like  a  sponge  and  led  straight  across  her 
entire  countenance.  Of  course  the  red  ink  could  not 
be  removed,  and  the  situation  and  the  mouth  had  to  be 
accepted,  though  it  seemed  the  more  remarkable 
because  of  the  infinitesimal  mouths  always  given  to  the 
dolls  of  commerce. 

As  to  her  taste  in  dress,  only  words  of  praise  can  be 


262  A  Silent  Singer 

given  to  Dinah.  Never,  never  did  I  see  her  decked 
out  in  silk,  satin,  or  velvet,  and  only  once,  in  the 
middle  of  an  oldest  inhabitant's  coldest  winter,  did  I 
see  her  in  merino. 

She  usually  wore  print  or  gingham,  while  her  under 
garments,  numerous  and  beautifully  made,  were  of  a 
material  so  coarse  and  strong  as  to  cause  surprise  to 
strangers,  but  to  those  who  had  the  misfortune  to  know 
the  little  vixen,  Marie,  these  coarse  skirts,  pantalettes 
and  chemises,  stoutly  stitched  with  about  thirty-six 
cotton,  were  luminous  with  meaning,  suggesting  as 
they  did  the  dread  possibility  of  tantrums  on  the  part 
of  said  vixen,  Marie. 

Dinah  was  complete  save  for  her  shoes,  which  were 
already  cut  from  a  pair  of  old  kid  gloves,  and  her  name. 
I  remember  her  creator  wished  to  call  her  Lillian,  but 
with  all  the  wisdom  of  my  five  full-fledged  years  well 
to  the  fore,  I  suggested  that  it  would  be  well  for  all  of 
us  to  leave  the  christening  to  Miss  Marie,  herself.  And 
she  of  thirty -five  years  bent  her  head  to  my  five,  and 
the  name  of  Lillian  floated  back  to  the  limbo  from 
which  it  had  been  so  briefly  called.  As  the  second 
shoe  was  taken  up,  Marie  showed  signs  of  waking,  and 
the  newly  created  one  was  thrust  into  my  hands,  and  I 
was  told  to  go  and  give  it  to  the  little  tot.  But  deep 
down  in  my  soul  I  said,  "  Nay  !  Nay ! "  for  mark  you, 
I  was  a  canny  child,  and  ten  years  of  life's  experiences 
had  been  crowded  into  my  five  of  actual  time,  and  hell 
and  bitter  punishments  took  prominent  places  in  the 


Dinah  263 

religion  thus  far  made  known  to  me.  I  said  to  myself 
therefore :  "  This  child  is  wicked,  for  all  she  is  so 
pretty,  she's  awful,  and  if  for  her  punishment  she 
is  to  be  frightened  to  death  by  the  sight  of  this 
nameless  thing,  I  don't  intend  to  be  the  instrument 
used  in  her  undoing !  So,  swiftly  I  crept  to  the 
great  crib-bed,  and  in  a  moment  crept  away  again, 
leaving  across  her  stomach,  like  a  hideous  nightmare, 
that  "  deed  without  a  name,"  and  then  I  fled  to  the 
hall  and  waited  for  things,  behind  the  partly  open  door ; 
wondering  which  of  the  little  cups  and  glasses  on  a 
stand  by  the  bed,  holding  cooling  drinks,  would  strike 
the  door  first.  I  waited  and  watched.  Marie's  eyes 
opened,  a  scowl  instantly  darkened  her  face ;  in  a  queru 
lous  tone  she  asked,  "  Is  my  mamma,  home,  now  ?  " 

The  voice  of  the  sempstress  answered  gently,  "  No, 
dear,"  and  a  light  like  sunshine  came  into  her  brilliant 
eyes ;  she]  smiled  sweetly  and  asked,  "  Where's  my 
Cawie?"  her  name  for  me,  and  as  near  as  she  could 
get  to  Carrie,  and  then  she  felt  the  weight  across  her, 
and  the  moment  had  come ! 

She  lifted  the  thing,  and  they  were  face  to  face. 
The  child's  eyes  opened  wider  and  wider,  the  pupils 
dilated,  the  lids  flickered  nervously,  then  came  a  faint, 
long-drawn  "  Oh — h — h  !  "  another  pause,  broken  at 
last  by  the  announcement,  calmly  and  gravely  made, 
"  She  eyes,  don't  fit  each  other  !" 

Marie  had  trouble  with  her  personal  pronouns,  as 
well  as  with  her  relatives. 


264  A  Silent  Singer 

Next  moment  she  rolled  over  and  began  to  scramble 
into  a  sitting  posture,  during  which  she  all  uncon 
sciously  pressed  the  doll  tightly  against  her  little  chest. 
(Oh,  for  us,  happy  accident ! )  for  the  next  instant, 
with  a  shout  of  surprise  and  joy,  she  cried,  "  Oh,  she 
cuddles,  she  cuddles  !  " 

Two  words  which  were  to  become  familiar  to  every 
member  of  the  family,  in  the  time  to  come,  "  She 
cuddles,  and  she  is  Dinah,  my  peshous!  Dinah, 
always  !  " 

And  she  who  had  thought  of  Lillian  rashly 
exclaimed,  "  But  why  on  earth,  Dinah  ?  " 

And  received  for  answer,  "  Caus',  I  say  so,  and 
caus'  my  mamma  jess  hates  the  Dinah  song."  A 
so-called  "  comic,"  named  "Wilkins  and  Dinah  "  that 
Mrs.  Tyler  raged  at  when  her  young  brother  used  to 
sing  it  within  her  hearing. 

So  it  was  pure  malice  that  prompted  "  Tyler's  little 
vixen  "  to  name  her  new  treasure  "  Dinah  " !  Then  fol 
lowing  that  rule  of  action  familiar  to  all  small  girls 
with  dolls  since  before  the  building  of  the  temple,  she 
turned  Dinah  upside  down,  that  she  might  know 
quantity,  quality,  and  condition  of  her  undergarments, 
and  when  she  found  that  Dinah  possessed  that  final 
charm,  that  very  crown  of  happy  dolldom,  the  abil 
ity  to  have  her  clothes  put  on  and  off,  to  be  dressed 
and  undressed  at  will,  the  measure  was  full,  her  joy 
complete. 

She  turned  her  Dinah  right  side  up  again  and  kissed 


Dinah  265 

her  fondly.  At  that  sight  my  short  legs  basely 
betrayed  me,  and  I  sat  down  with  unnecessary  emphasis 
the  deaf  might  have  heard.  Instantly  the  cry  arose : 
"You,  Cawie,  Cawie,  come  here  and  see  my  'peshous 
Dinah'!" 

I  rose  and  obeyed.  Shortly  after,  when  the 
"peshous  one  "  had  been  properly  shod,  and  Marie  was 
dressed  for  tea,  we  went  forth  to  walk  Dinah;  but 
Marie,  recalling  the  three  handsome  dolls  sitting  bolt 
upright  in  the  parlor,  suddenly  commanded  me  to  return 
and  make  faces  at  them,  u  real  bad  faces,  too,  for  being 
so  stiff  and  big  they  couldn't  cuddle." 

But  I  suggested  that  she  should  wait  till  the  gas  was 
burning,  and  then  let  the  dolls  see  Dinah,  and  with 
malicious  joy  she  waited.  And  so  began  the  fellow 
ship  between  those  two.  Straight  into  her  warm  and 
tender,  little  heart  the  vixen  took  her  "  peshous 
Dinah  "  and  gave  her  a  love  that  could  not  be  shaken  by 
a  mother's  angry  tears,  a  father's  bribery,  or  the  con 
temptuous  sneers  of  friends  and  neighbors — a  love  that 
lasted  so  long  as  Dinah's  self.  The  effect  she  pro 
duced  on  people  at  first  sight  was  remarkable.  There 
was  Mr.  Tyler,  for  instance  ;  a  good-looking  man,  very 
quiet,  very  gentle  and  very  kind.  He  never  drank, 
yet  the  first  time  he  saw  Dinah  he  thought  he  did,  and 
he  was  afraid  to  kiss  his  wife,  lest  she  should  think  so, 
too ;  and  I  saw  him  secretly  touch  Dinah  once  or 
twice,  to  make  sure  she  was  real. 

Marie's  young  uncle,  too,  he  was  preparing  for  col- 


266  A  Silent  Singer 

lege,  and  though  he  was  gay  and  full  of  fun,  his  con 
duct  was  excellent,  and  he  was  very  strict  about  Sunday 
observances,  but  when  he  met  Dinah  he  exclaimed : 
"  Well,  I'll  be  d— d  !  "  Perhaps  that  was  not  Dinah's 
fault.  He  might  have  been  thinking  of  his  future 
state,  and  had  just  arrived  at  that  conclusion. 

Perhaps  the  most  disagreeable  occurrence  was  when 
the  minister,  Presbyterian,  called,  and  not  having  his 
glasses  011,  sat  himself  down  heavily  upon  Dinah.  He 
instantly  sprang  up  to  remove  the  foreign  substance  he 
felt  beneath  him,  and  meeting  the  malevolent  eye  of 
the  "  peshous  one,"  he  exclaimed,  in  a  startled  tone : 
"God  bless  my  soul ! — er — er — I  should  say — what  on 
earth?" 

But  with  a  bound,  the  vixen,  Marie,  was  at  his  side, 
crying :  "  How  dare  you,  you  too  fat,  bad  old  man  ; 
you  sat  on  rny  Dinah  and  swor'd,  you  did  !  " 

With  a  crimson  face  he  answered  :  u  Oh,  no  ;  oh, 
no  !  my  dear  little  child,  you  are  mistaken.  I— 

But  Marie  stamped  her  foot  at  him  and  cried :  "You 
swor'd!  you  swor'd!"  upon  which  tableau  entered 
Mrs.  Tyler. 

Gradually,  however,  Dinah  came  to  be  accepted  by 
the  family,  and  it  was  surprising  to  see  how  useful  she 
became  to  its  various  members.  Mr.  Tyler,  who  did  a 
good  deal  of  office  work  at  home,  used  her  almost  con 
tinuously  as  a  pen-wiper.  Instead  of  having  to  pick 
up  a  tiny  round  of  cloth  and  carefully  fit  the  pen  to  a 
narrow  fold,  Dinah  allowed  a  largeness  and  freedom  of 


Dinah  267 

movement  very  pleasant  to  him.  Just  a  swipe  at  her 
in  almost  any  direction,  and  the  pen  was  clean. 

The  young  uncle,  who  delighted  in  the  comfort  of  a 
rocking  chair,  yet  detested  its  movement,  used  Dinah 
as  a  sort  of  brake,  placing  her  under  the  back  of  a 
rocker  at  just  the  right  angle  to  prevent  action,  while 
many  a  time  the  somewhat  flighty  housemaid,  having 
forgotten  to  dust  the  "  what-not "  (indispensable 
adjunct  of  the  parlor  of  that  date),  would  snatch  up 
Dinah  and  dust  all  the  shelves  and  their  contents  with 
her,  fitting  her  arm  or  her  leg  into  the  depths  of  "  To 
a  Good  Girl,"  or  "From  Chelsia,"  or  "Friendship's 
Offering" — these  cups  and  mugs,  with  their  roses  and 
posies  and  fine  gold  lettering,  being  veritable  dust  traps, 
as  were  the  sea  shells,  with  the  Lord's  Prayer  cut  on 
their  surface,  and  the  parian-marble  Rebeccas  standing 
by  salt-cellar-like  wells,  and  of  such  was  the  bric-a-brac 
of  that  day,  you  know — the  day  of  wax  things  under 
glass  shades. 

The  entire  family  used  the  back  of  Dinah's  head  as 
a  pin  cushion,  while  again  and  again  I  have  seen  her 
act  as  an  iron-holder,  when  a  sash  ribbon  or  bit  of  lace 
had  to  be  pressed  just  there  in  the  sitting-room. 

But  it  was  as  a  weapon  of  defence  that  she  got  in 
her  really  fine  work.  Grasped  firmly  by  the  legs  and 
directed  by  impassioned  energy  toward  a  wisely  selected 
point,  Dinah  was  capable  of  giving  a  blow  as  surpris 
ing  to  witness  as  it  was  stunning  to  feel.  Practice 
makes  perfect,  and  so  it  came  about  that  that  vixen, 


268  A  Silent  Singer 

Marie's,  aim  was  so  quick,  so  steady  and  so  true,  that 
she  landed  with  Dinah  right  on  the  intended  spot 
every  time.  She  paid  no  attention  to  rules  about  the 
belt  line,  striking  below  it  with  as  much  vigor  as  above 
it.  There  was  never  any  clinching,  because  no  one 
would  come  near  enough  for  that,  but  I  have  known 
her  to  strike  a  blow  with  Dinah  hard  enough  to  rupture 
Mrs.  Tyler's  agreement  with  the  cook. 

Some  months  after  Dinah's  arrival  I  became  recog 
nized  as  a  sort  of  family  lightning-rod,  since  I  had  the 
power  of  deflecting  the  fluid  wrath  and  deviltry  of 
Marie's  temper  and  leading  it  to  comparatively  harm 
less  points. 

She  was  very  fond  of  me,  partly  because  I  was  older 
than  she  was,  and  partly  because  I  found  so  many  new 
things  for  her  to  play.  Everything  I  saw  away  from 
home  was  served  up  at  once  as  a  play  for  Marie.  Oh, 
that  was  a  great  occasion  when  I  saw  a  lady  faint  in  a 
store  !  Dinah  had  to  faint  so  many  times  in  one  day 
that  she  was  wet  clear  through  her  whole  body,  from 
her  many  revivings,  and  was  in  such  a  disgraceful  con 
dition  from  the  brandy  we  gave  her  that,  being  utterly 
unable  to  stand,  she  had  to  hang  on  the  clothes-line 
several  hours  before  she  could  be  endured  in  a  warm 
room,  and  I  remember  Marie  asked  me  if  the  lady  had 
smelled  like  that. 

Mr.  Tyler  was  not  a  very  strong  man,  not  sickly — 
what  a  hateful  word — but  rather  delicate;  in  fact, 
though  he  never  said  so,  he  had  nerves,  and  it  must 


Dinah  269 

have  tried  them  severely  when  he  came  to  breakfast 
and  had  to  face  Dinah,  sitting  in  the  middle  of  the 
table,  with  her  back  against  the  big  family  castor,  and 
her  one  straight  eye  fixed  upon  his  shrinking  counte 
nance.  The  skeleton  at  the  banquet  never  made  half 
the  effect  the  "peshous  'un"  made,  for  in  the  first 
place  the  skeleton  was  crowned  with  roses,  and  there 
were  bright  lights  and  a  small  river  of  wine  to  help  the 
guests  forget  the  presence  of  their  ghastly  companion ; 
but  no  skull  that  was  ever  bleached  had  a  smile  to 
compare  with  Dinah's,  which  crossed  her  entire  face 
and  would  have  gone  on  and  met  at  the  back  of  her 
head  had  it  not  been  stopped  by  her  side  seams,  where 
her  front  and  her  back  were  sewed  together.  There 
were  no  roses  on  Dinah  and  no  wine  to  dim  her  effect, 
and  poor  Mr.  Tyler  chipped  his  egg  and  crumbled  his 
roll,  but,  with  that  eye  upon  him,  got  no  further,  and 
merely  taking  his  coffee,  he  fled.  The  rest  of  us  got  a 
side  or  back  view,  so  we  did  not  suffer  so  much.  This 
went  on  until  dyspepsia  developed.  I  have  said  before, 
I  was  very  fond  of  Mr.  Tyler,  and  I  began  to  look  for 
some  way  to  help  him.  One  day,  at  table,  the  uncle 
had  nearly  betrayed  a  surprise  that  was  being  prepared 
for  the  little  Marie,  and  Mrs.  Tyler  reached  out  her 
foot  and  pushed  him  to  enforce  silence,  a  movement  at 
once  discovered  by  that  acute  young  person,  who  there 
upon  made  a  scene,  and  thereafter  passed  much  of  her 
time,  at  meals,  hanging  head  downward  from  her  chair, 
trying  to  see  under  the  table  that  she  might  (in  her 


270  A  Silent  Singer 

own  language),  "  see  who  kicked  who,"  a  habit  which 
caused  many  upsettings  of  things  and  much  discomfort, 
but  one  to  which  she  clung  until  I  made  a  suggestion 
which  found  favor  in  her  eyes. 

"  Ah ! "  said  I,  "  if  Dinah  belonged  to  me  I'd  make 
her  do  something  lovely!"  "Oh,  what?"  cried  the 
little  vixen,  and  after  much  coaxing  I  spoke,  with  the 
blessed  result  that  for  over  two  weeks,  at  breakfast, 
dinner  and  tea,  Dinah,  the  dreadful,  was  carefully 
placed  under  the  table  to  watch  "  who  kicked  who." 
"Ah!  "  cried  Marie,  "yer  can't  wink  yer  eyes  at  each 
other,  'cause  I  is  looking  at  yer  all !  Yer  can't  kick 
each  other,  'cause  Dinah's  looking  at  yer  hard,  and  if 
yer  spell  things,  I'll — I'll — I'll  just  hold  my  breff  and 
die!  so  now,  I'll  have  to  know  everyfing!  " 

But  Mr.  Tyler  ate  his  egg  and  toast,  and  smilingly 
drank  a  second  cup  of  coffee  mornings,  and  he  patted 
my  shoulder  and  gave  me  a  big,  red  Canadian  penny, 
which  Marie,  being  jealous,  took  from  me  and  threw 
down  the  well,  while  the  young  uncle  started  the 
lightning-rod  idea,  saying  "that  I  had  diverted  Marie's 
deviltry  from  the  top  of  the  table  to  the  bottom,  where 
it  was  harmless." 

I  will  mention  one  episode  in  Dinah's  life,  and  that 
will  serve  to  indicate  pretty  fairly  what  the  others  were 
like.  I  always  call  it  the  hail-stone  episode.  Late 
one  afternoon  a  violent  storm  had  come  on.  We  were 
all  frightened,  and  poor,  little,  spoiled  Marie  was  quiver 
ing  from  head  to  foot  with  nervous  terror.  Presently 


Dinah  271 

the  rain  turned  to  hail,  great  lumps  of  ice  came  dashing 
against  the  windows,  and  "  crack !  "  went  a  big  window- 
pane,  and  in  fell  the  pieces  of  glass.  Again  came  the 
rushing  rain,  and  the  water  falling  on  a  table  covered 
with  books,  the  house-maid  caught  up  something  and 
thrust  it  into  the  opening  in  the  broken  window.  Alas, 
and  alas!  that  "something"  was  Dinah!  The 
"peshous  un  "  !  Dinah  the  beloved!  There  she  was, 
her  cross  eyes  looking  at  us  from  between  her  glove- 
shod  feet,  like  a  contortionist  at  a  circus,  while  her 
doubled  body  was  thrust  out  into  the  hail  and  rain 
outside.  And  there,  all  unknown  to  us,  she  remained 
for  a  long,  long  time,  and  the  thunder  rolled  and  the 
house  shook  till  the  spoons  rattled  and  tinkled  in  their 
holder.  And  suddenly  Marie  lifted  up  a  marble-white, 
little  face,  and  putting  out  her  hand  to  my  mother, 
said,  faintly,  "  Aunty  ?  (courtesy  title  only)  tell  God, 
please  stop !  I'm  frightened !  " 

The  awful  dazzle  of  lightning  followed  her  words, 
and  again  she  buried  her  face,  laying  her  tiny  hands 
over  her  ears,  to  keep  out  the  terrifying  sounds.  A 
lamp  was  lighted,  and  they  began  to  undress  her  and 
prepare  her  for  bed,  simply  to  divert  her  attention 
from  the  storm.  She  was  very  silent,  but  she  shook 
violently,  and  her  eyes  were  strained  and  wild-looking. 
Suddenly  the  heavens  seemed  to  flame !  The  crash 
that  followed  left  the  ears  ringing !  We  all  cried  out, 
but  the  vixen  gave  a  bound  and  stood  in  the  middle  of 
the  room ;  her  eyes  fairly  blazed ;  she  raised  them  to  the 


272  A  Silent  Singer 

ceiling,  and  in  a  shrill  voice  she  cried,  "  Stop !  stop,  I 
tell  you !  I'm  frightened !  " 

Again  a  dazzle  of  lightning,  again  a  roar  of  thunder, 
and  in  an  instant  that  little  bundle  of  nerves  had 
darted  to  the  hall,  and  with  both  hands  succeeded  in 
turning  the  knob  (the  wind  did  the  rest),  and  to  our 
unutterable  horror,  we  saw  her  little,  white-robed  figure 
dart  down  the  steps,  and  standing  on  the  bit  of  rain- 
soaked  lawn,  mad  with  rage,  she  lifted  her  challenging 
face  to  the  black  sky,  and  stamping  her  bare,  little 
foot,  she  cried,  against  the  wind,  "  How  dare  you,  God? 
I'm  little  Marie  Tyler,  and  I  told  you  I  was  afraid! 
How  dare  you?  a  great  big  God  like  you,  frighten  a 
little  girl  like  me?  "  and  then  she  was  in  her  mother's 
arms,  and  was  carried  into  the  house  dripping  as  from 
a  river,  and  spitting  and  hissing  like  an  enraged  cat. 

The  storm  ceased  at  last,  at  least  the  outer  storm ; 
there  was  another  coming,  for  where  was  my  "  peshous 
Dinah"? 

Every  one  looked,  looked  high  and  low,  looked  until 
we  got  to  the  place,  where  we  stood  and  looked  stupidly 
at  one  another,  and  then  there  came,  in  a  strained  whis 
per,  from  Marie  :  "  What's  that  ?  " 

She  pointed  at  a  dripping  bundle  sticking  in  the 
broken  window-pane.  Mrs.  Tyler  screamed  outright! 
Those  cross-eyes  looking  at  her  from  between  those 
stubby  feet.  There  was  a  wild  abandon  in  the  atti 
tude  that  shocked  her !  But  her  scream  was  as  nothing 
compared  to  the  succession  of  shrieks  that  broke  from 


Dinah  273 

the  throat  of  "  Tyler's  pretty  little  devil "  !  "  Who  ? 
a-ar— ah!  Who?  a— a— ah!  Who?  a— a^-ah!"  she 
screamed  after  each  "  Who  ?  " 

At  last  she  finished,  "  Who  put  iny  4  peshous  Dinah' 
in  that  hole  ?  She  shall  be  killed,  all  dead  !  and  put  in 
a  hole,  her  own-self !  She  shall ! !  She  shall ! !  !  "  She 
caught  up  a  glass  from  the  table  and  dashed  it  on  the 
floor,  breaking  it  in  pieces.  "  Hurry !  or  I'll  break 
everything,  I  will !  !  "  And  when  Dinah  was  pulled  out 
and  straightened,  words  of  mine  fail  to  describe  her 
appearance! 

Marie  held  loving  little  arms  out  to  receive  the  drip 
ping  stop-gap,  saying:  UWV11  go  to  bed,  right  now, 
my  *  peshous  Dinah ' !  Never  mind  your  nighty,  you'll 
get  cold !  Come,  and  we'll  cuddle  up,  until  you  are  all 
dry  again ! "  And  then  the  storm  broke !  It  was 
simple  impossible  that  Marie  should  be  allowed  to  go 
to  bed  with  that  dripping  bundle  pressed  in  her  arms, 
and  it  was  equally  impossible  to  make  her  obey  or 
listen  to  reason.  It  was  a  wretched  scene.  The  mother 
knelt  to  the  child  she  had  ruined,  calling  her,  "  her 
angel,  her  star,  her  flower,"  and  Marie  gave  her  a  kick 
or  a  push  at  each  word,  and  swore  oaths  that  a  mule- 
driver  would  hesitate  before  ejecting  in  a  row.  Where 
had  she  learned  them  ?  Who  knows  ?  Who  ever  knows 
how  a  beloved  child  learns  evil  ?  But  on  and  on  went 
this  battle,  until  at  last,  worn  out  with  the  past  fright 
and  the  present  rage,  the  little  vixen  fainted. 

Mrs.  Tyler  sent  for  the  doctor,  and  while  waiting 


274  A  Silent  Singer 

his  coming,  and  after  Marie's  recovery  of  consciousness, 
she  said  to  me:  "  Carrie,  can't  you  think  of  some  way 
to  keep  that  awful  doll  away  from  my  darling  to-night  ? 
Try,  child,  try  !  " 

I  thought  hard  enough  to  turn  my  hair  gray,  it 
seemed  to  me,  before  I  was  gladdened  by  an  idea.  I 
went  to  the  door  and  beckoned  Mrs.  Tyler,  and  asked 
her,  in  a  whisper,  two  or  three  questions  about  an  article 
she  had  been  reading  aloud  when  the  storm  arose — an 
article  about  the  water-cure,  then  the  very  newest  fad. 
She  gave  me  the  desired  information,  and  thus  armed, 
I  stole  to  Marie's  side,  and  with  great  seeming  secrecy, 
told  her  I  had  a  lovely  new  play,  if  only  her  mother 
would  allow  us  (poor  Mrs.  Tyler !)  to  play  it. 

Rather  languidly,  she  answered :  "  To-morrow, 
Cawie!" 

But  I  said :  "  To-morrow  would  be  too  late,  because 
Dinah  had  to  be  awful  wet  to  play  this  game." 

At  once  she  was  all  eagerness,  and  commanded  me 
to  explain.  And  so  it  came  about,  that  the  "  peshous 
un  "  was  stripped  under  loving  eyes  and  rolled  in  a  wet 
dinner-napkin,  and  then  "packed"  in  wet  sheets,  all 
according  to  "  Hoyle,"  or  the  water-cure  doctors.  And 
I  engaged  to  give  her  several  drinks  of  water  during 
the  night,  and  assured  Marie  that  she  would  find  her 
"  peshous  Dinah  "  all  right  in  the  morning,  and  Marie 
laughed  and  talked,  while  I  did  the  packing.  And  the 
doctor  found  her  with  a  high  pulse  and  red  cheeks,  but 
the  wet  doll  was  not  in  her  arms.  She  refused  to  show 


Dinah  275 

her  tongue,  because  she  said  the  last  time  she  put  out 
her  tongue  at  him,  he  was  mad  about  it,  which  was  very 
true. 

He  gave  her  a  powder,  she  went  to  sleep,  and  the 
rest  of  us  humbly  thanked  our  Creator. 

Dinah  was  snatched  out  of  her  "  pack  "  and  put  in 
the  warm  oven  to  dry,  while  the  other  members  of  the 
family  slept  the  sleep  of  the  weary  and  the  worn. 

Three  entire  years  passed  in  alternate  peace  and 
strife.  Acting  in  the  interest  of  decency  and  cleanli 
ness,  Mrs.  Tyler  had  covered  Dinah  with  fresh  linen 
several  times.  Little  Marie  had  grown  taller,  more 
beautiful,  and  more  impish ;  while  Dinah  still  reigned 
supreme,  though  almost  every  bureau  in  the  house  had 
in  its  bottom  drawer  a  wax  doll  or  two,  rolled  up  in 
towels. 

For  some  time  before  the  great  disaster,  we  had  been 
tormented  by  cats.  Why  our  garden  should  have  been 
selected  for  their  mass-meetings,  I  can't  imagine.  We 
lived  in  a  fashionable  quarter ;  there  was  an  air  of 
eternal  Sabbath  brooding  over  our  heavily  shaded 
street;  a  few  lap-dogs  resided  thereon,  but  no  one 
stooped  to  cats.  Yet  night  and  cats  descended  upon  us 
together. 

Mrs.  Tyler  raised  many  herbs  for  kitchen  use,  but 
after  the  arrival  of  the  cats  the  herbs  entered  the 
kitchen  no  more.  The  back  garden  was  destroyed. 

They  were  a  musical  as  well  as  warlike  race,  and 
their  head  notes,  chest  notes,  and  stomach  notes,  were 


276  A  Silent  Singer 

poured  forth  with  passionate  ardor,  but  I  never,  never 
learned  to  distinguish  the  tenderest  love  song  from  the 
wail  of  complete  despair,  though  I  was  quick  to  recog 
nize  the  gage  of  battle.  I  also  learned  that  the  bitter 
ness  and  ferocity  of  an  engagement  was  not  to  be 
measured  so  surely  by  the  loss  of  blood  as  by  the  loss 
of  fur. 

But  let  me  stop  right  here,  and  not  weary  the  reader 
with  what  I  know  about  cats — tribal,  nomadic,  domes 
tic  ;  their  habits,  laws,  and  superstitions  ;  their  sign- 
language,  being  the  very  same  that  was  taught  to  the 
tail-chasing,  sacred  kittens  of  Cheops  and  the  first 
Pharaoh — and  only  state  that  in  the  study  of  feline  folk 
lore,  I  have  known  of  a  student  becoming  so  absorbed 
that  he  forgot  everything  on  earth,  even  the  "  lore,"  in 
his  mad  pursuit  of  a  feline. 

Now,  one  evening,  Mr.  Tyler  brought  home  an  old 
friend,  whom  he  asked  to  dine  and  pass  the  night.  The 
old  friend  had  with  him  a  small  dog,  who  also  dined 
and  passed  the  night.  The  gentleman  was  a  bachelor 
then,  and  if  he  is  alive  and  sane,  I  have  the  biggest  and 
ugliest  silver  dollar  in  the  world  to  bet  against  a  crooked 
hair-pin,  that  he  is  a  bachelor  now.  The  dog  was  small, 
and  it  had  hair — lots  of  hair — and  judging  by  sight 
alone,  that  was  all  he  had.  His  master  claimed  that 
he  could  see  a  difference  between  fore  and  aft,  between 
head  and  tail.  Well,  perhaps  he  could  when  the  dog 
was  awake,  but  'twas  base  boasting  to  make  any  such 
claim  when  he  was  sleeping.  He  was  named  "  Bolivar," 


Dinah  277 

not  after  the  military  gentleman,  but  in  memory  of  his 
youthful  and  almost  fatal  attempt  to  swallow  whole 
one  of  those  very  large,  hard,  round  candies  boys  call 
"Bolivars." 

This  four-legged  guest  had  made  that  thing  adored 
of  men,  "  a  record,"  and  it  was  for  killing  rats.  Now 
you  show  me  a  dog  with  a  record  for  killing  rats,  and 
I'll  show  you  a  dog  who  has  broken  the  record  killing 
cats.  It's  perfectly  natural ;  he  has  to  kill  the  cats  or 
there  would  not  be  rats  enough  to  make  a  record  with. 

Bolivar  was  graciously  received  by  Marie,  who  knew 
but  little  of  dogs,  and  who  asked  "  why  he  bit  his  own 
back  when  everybody's  legs  were  in  his  reach,"  add 
ing,  "If  I  was  a  dog  I'd  bite  somebody  else  every 
time ;  "  which  was  pure  and  unadulterated  truth,  I'm 
sure. 

In  the  forenoon  of  that  day,  "  Tyler's  pretty  devil " 
had  favored  us  with  one  of  her  wildest  tantrums.  The 
servant,  Nor  ah,  had  spilled  a  little  hot  tea  over  Dinah's 
foot,  and  Marie  had  gone  into  a  very  frenzy  of  rage. 
Seizing  Dinah  by  the  legs,  she  had  thrashed  the  girl 
out  of  the  room  and  the  house ;  had  with  one  sweep  of 
Dinah's  body  cleared  a  small  table  of  every  article  it 
held ;  had  cut  her  own  hand ;  had  held  her  breath 
until  she  was  blue ;  had  indeed  furnished  her  whole 
family  with  healthy  but  rather  unpleasant  exercise  for 
both  mind  and  body,  and  when  she  had  so  stirred  her 
monkeys  up  that  we  each  chattered  our  teeth  while  we 
swang  madly  from  our  own  particular  pole,  she  had 


278  A  Silent  Singer 

suddenly  calmed  down  and  requested  me  to  bandage 
Dinah's  scalded  foot,  and  proceed  with  her  to  the 
garden,  there  to  play  "  sick  lady  in  the  country." 

By  some  chance  there  had  sprung  up,  at  the  very 
foot  of  the  garden,  a  large  weed,  a  most  uncommon 
growth  amid  such  surroundings ;  a  great,  big,  coarse- 
leafed,  pinkish-topped  thing,  a  sort  of  pretty  tramp 
from  the  woods  or  fields ;  I  think  it's  called  milk-weed, 
though  to  Dinah  it  was  usually  an  orange  orchard, 
while  only  occasionally  it  became  a  pine  forest  in  which 
we  lost  ourselves  and  endured  great  hardships. 

I  remember  it  was  an  orange  orchard  that  da;,  and 
after  a  long  play,  when  Marie  was  called  to  dress  for 
dinner,  she  advised  Dinah  to  remain  where  she  was, 
saying,  "When  dinner  is  over  I'll  bring  you  some 
dessert." 

So  I  gave  Dinah  a  book  to  read,  and  we  left  her. 
We  both  looked  back,  Marie  many  times,  and  always 
kissing  her  hand.  And  so  I  most  often  see  her  in  my 
memory,  the  "  peshous  one,"  I  mean,  sitting  stiffly 
against  the  trunk  of  her  orange  tree,  one  foot  band 
aged  (without  the  formality  of  first  removing  her  boot), 
an  open  almanac  on  her  lap,  whose  piteous,  gray,  old 
jokes  were  to  entertain  her  during  our  absence,  her 
water-waves  trim  and  neat,  her  round  eye  mild  and 
pleasant,  her  smile  almost  meeting  behind  —  so  I  saw 
her  that  last  day. 

The  dinner  was  over;  it  had  not  been  what  you 
might  call  an  hilarious  affair.  There  seems  to  be 


Dinah  279 

something  in  the  blood  of  wives  at  enmity  with  unin 
vited  guests,  and  Mrs.  Tyler  was  cold  as  ice  and  as 
bitter  as  a  black  frost. 

When  dinner  was  nearly  ready,  Bolivar  sneaked  out 
to  the  kitchen,  where  the  cook  had  given  him  a  large, 
square  meal,  feeding  him  from  her  own  hand,  as  she 
told  me  afterward  in  confidence,  until  "he  was  that 
full  his  eyes  bulged,  Miss !  "  And  in  that  dreadful 
state  he  waddled  back  to  the  dining-room,  and  when 
dinner  was  over,  sat  on  end  by  his  master  and  laid 
beseeching,  hypocritical  paws  on  his  knee,  and  was  fed 
again,  after  which  he  was  in  a  condition  bordering  on 
appoplexy,  and  quite  unfit  to  play  "  soldier,"  or  "  dead- 
dog,"  or  do  anything  in  fact,  save  retire  to  the  fly  less 
shadows  under  the  piano  and  there  sleep,  audibly. 
Marie  was  so  interested  in  Bolivar  and  so  busy  flirting 
with  his  master  (she  was  a  coquette  at  one  year),  that 
she  actually  forgot  Dinah,  who  still  sat  in  the  orange 
orchard. 

The  bare  idea  of  a  dog  sleeping  in  her  house  filled 
Mrs.  Tyler  with  such  indignation  that  other  arrangements 
had  to  be  hastily  made  for  Bolivar's  accommodation. 

Some  former  tenants  had  left  a  kennel  behind  them. 
It  was  brought  from  the  wood-house,  a  bit  of  old  carpet 
put  into  it,  and  the  sleepy  Bolivar  was  hitched  to  it 
with  a  piece  of  cord.  After  two  or  three  strangling 
efforts  to  follow  his  master,  kennel  and  all,  into  the 
house,  he  finally  settled  himself,  and  we  all  separated 
for  the  night. 


280  A  Silent  Singer 

We  were  all  asleep — and  then  we  were  all  awake 
again  !  No,  it  was  not  the  "crack  of  doom"  we  heard, 
but  if  you  were  to  break  one  boiler  factory  into  a 
foundling  asylum  and  beat  them  together,  you  might 
get  an  idea  of  the  kind  of  noise  that  aroused  us.  I 
murmured  "Cats,"  and  tried  to  slip  back  into  the 
sweet  land  of  "Nod,"  but  there  came  a  new  noise.  It 
had  a  wooden  sound.  What  was  it  ?  My  mother  said 
"Is  the  wood-pile  falling  down?"  But  it  sounded  to 
me  as  though  the  shed  was  jumping  up  and  down. 
Suddenly  we  gasped,  "  The  dog !  The  kennel !  " 

Next  instant  the  cord  broke  and  with  an  ear  pierc 
ing  "ky — i,  ky — i!"  Bolivar  set  out  to  build  up 
another  record.  It  was  fearful !  The  carnage  was 
great,  but  the  noise  was  maddening.  Our  nearest 
neighbor  came  to  his  window  and  made  very,  very  per 
sonal  remarks  about  people  who  would  keep  a  dog 
where  they  knew  cats  came.  This  gentleman's  head 
was  like  a  large,  china  egg,  for  baldness,  and  I  think 
the  extreme  hairiness  of  Bolivar  added  bitterness  to 
his  words. 

Had  Bolivar  been  satisfied  to  kill  his  cats  once  only, 
his  record  would  have  been  bigger,  but  he  had  a  habit 
of  killing  his  victims  several  times,  going  back  to  them 
and  shaking  and  tossing  them  and  crunching  their 
spines  with  his  front  teeth,  and  while  this  habit  had 
the  advantage  of  making  his  cats  and  rats  very  dead 
indeed,  it  lost  him  a  good  deal  of  time. 

I  slipped  out  of  bed  and  went  to  the  window  and 


Dinah  281 

looked  out,  just  as  the  triumphant  Bolivar  tore  around 
the  house,  dragging  his  prey  and  kicking  up  the  grave 
as  he  ran.  Just  beneath  me  he  paused  to  re-kill  his 
victim,  shaking  it  viciously,  tossing  it  over  his  head, 
and  with  a  goatlike  spring  catching  it  again.  Then, 
taking  it  at  the  head,  he,  with  savage  growls,  began 
nipping  it  down  its  back.  At  that  moment  I  heard 
the  stairs  creak,  and  some  one  softly  opened  the  front 
door,  and  then  Mr.  Tyler's  friend  came  into  view. 

He  was  dressed,  or — that  is  to  say — er — er,  well,  he 
wasn't  undressed,  quite.  His  feet  were  thrust  into  a 
pair  of  heelless  slippers,  and  I  experienced  a  feeling  of 
some  surprise  at  the  number  of  strings  I  could  see 
dangling  from  him.  There  were  two  broad,  white  ones 
hanging  down  behind  from  the  waist-line,  and  at  least 
four  pieces  of  white  tape  trailed  along  behind  his  bare 
heels,  which  looked  in  the  moonlight  like  a  pair  of  fine 
onions — moonlight  always  has  that  strange,  transform 
ing  power. 

Yes,  though  his  dress  was  careless  and  simple  to  a 
degree,  still  it  answered  quite  nicely  for  two  o'clock  in 
the  morning,  though  ten  hours  later  it  would  have 
landed  him  in  the  fine,  new  insane  asylum  waiting  for 
gentlemen  dressed  that  way. 

He  conversed  with  Bolivar  a  few  moments,  and  his 
gestures,  while  a  trifle  angular,  were  really  very 
impressive  and  expressive.  What  he  said  seemed  to 
fill  Bolivar  with  utter  amazement,  and  finally  with  shame 
and  vexation.  I  am  positive  that,  had  he  had  a  tail,  it 


282  A  Silent  Singer 

would  have  been  but  a  wagless  sagging  down,  and 
vanity  of  vanities.  As  it  was,  he  could  only  bow  his 
head  and  meekly  follow  his  master,  carefully  stepping 
on  all  four  of  the  trailing  tapes,  whenever  he  could, 
and  making  a  snap  now  and  then  at  the  broad,  white 
things  dangling  from  the  waist-line. 

Once  more  was  he  put  into  the  kennel  and  tied,  this 
time  with  a  clothes  line,  which  might  have  tried  the 
strength  of  the  best  steer  in  the  cattle  market.  Once 
more  peace  descended  upon  us.  Bolivar  had  earned 
fresh  laurels  to  rest  upon.  The  live  cats  had  gone 
away,  and  the  dead  cats  kept  perfectly  quiet,  which 
was  all  one  had  the  right  to  expect  of  them. 

It  was  yet  very  early  morning  when  I  heard  Norah 
at  Mrs.  Tyler's  door,  knocking,  and  crying  in  a  tearful 
voice  for  her  to  "  get  up  fur  huvvens  sake  !  " 

She  also  called  upon  such  a  very  large  number  of 
Saints  to  come  to  her  help  that  I  am  sure  the  house 
could  not  have  held  them  had  they  laid  aside  their 
symbols  and  things  and  answered  to  her  call.  I  sup 
pose  they  felt  that  everybody's  business  was  nobody's 
business,  so  none  of  them  responded. 

Mrs.  Tyler  was  unmistakably  vexed  as  she  opened 
the  door,  and  Norah  was  unmistakably  startled,  for 
Mrs.  Tyler  not  only  kept  her  teeth  in  a  cup  of  water 
over  night,  but,  to  make  it  wave,  she  plaited  her  front 
hair  in  many,  many  tight,  little  braids  (that  was  before 
crimping-pins),  which  looked  like  nothing  so  much  as 
a  bunch  of  nicely  cleaned  and  neatly  tied  rats'  tails. 


Dinah  283 

"  What  is  the  meaning  of  all  this  to-do?"  asked  the 
lady. 

"Oh,  Mu'm,  its  all  that  divil's  own  dog's  doin's! 
Him  that  I  fed  with  me  own  two  hands,  last  night,  till 
his  shape  was  gone  intirely !  And  now  she's  tored  to 
pieces !  The  Saints  be  good  to  us !  " 

"Do  you  know,"  cried  Mrs.  Tyler,  "what  you  are 
saying ! " 

"  I  do  the  same ! "  replied  Norah.  "  I'm  a'saying 
that  that  dog  '  Bullinger '  has  tored  her  to  pieces,  and 
she's  as  dead  as  any  mack'rel !  " 

"Who  is  dead,  Norah?" 

"  Why,  Miss  Dinah,  poor  thing !  " 

"  What !  "  Mrs.  Tyler  stepped  outside  and  quickly 
closed  the  door  behind  her.  She  took  Norah  by  the 
wrist,  gave  her  a  shake,  and  asked  in  a  low  tone: 
"  What's  that  about  Dinah  ?  " 

With  a  burst  of  excited  tears,  Norah  repeated: 
"She's  dead,  M'um,  as  dead  as  any  of  them  nasty 
cats  down  there!  And  I  thought  I'd  come  and  tell 
you,  M'um,  and  if  you  please,  M'um,  before  the  young 
lady  finds  it  out,  I'll  just  be  leavin'  me  place !  No 
M'um,  you  needn't  give  me  no  character !  I'll  just  be 
goin'  peaceable-like,  without  any  character  at  all !  " 

And  long  and  earnest  were  Mrs.  Tyler's  entreaties, 
and  many  were  the  promises  she  made  of  protection 
from  the  wrath  to  come,  ere  Norah  could  be  induced 
to  light  the  kitchen  fire,  her  first  unwilling  step  toward 
getting  breakfast  ready. 


284  A  Silent  Singer 

Then,  white  and  trembling,  Mrs.  Tyler  called  my 
mother.  They  went  forth  and  saw  Norah  had  told 
the  truth.  They  returned  and  held  a  consultation. 
Mrs.  Tyler  was  for  mad  haste  and  another  Dinah! 
Mother  was  positive  the  deception  could  not  be  carried 
out  on  such  short  notice,  and  a  discovered  attempt 
would  add  fury  to  the  storm. 

But  Mrs.  Tyler  insisted,  and  together  the  two 
women  worked  wildly,  in  the  hope  of  recreating  Dinah. 
With  dripping  brows  and  trembling  fingers  they  were 
fastening  on  her  boots,  when  shrill  and  clear  came  the 
cry  of  "  Dinah  !  Where's  my  peshous  Dinah  ?  I  want 
her!" 

Truly  we  all  wanted  her  at  that  moment ! 

I  was  scrambling  into  my  clothes  as  fast  as  I  could, 
when  through  the  open  door  I  caught  a  glimpse  of 
little  Marie  ;  the  next  instant  there  was  a  cry  of  indig 
nation,  followed  by  the  words:  "What's  that?  What 
ugly  fool  thing's  that — dressed  up  just  like  my  Dinah? 
Who's  been  here  already?" 

And  Mrs.  Tyler  tremulously  cooed  that  "No  one 
has  been  here,  darling — it  is  not  even  time  for  break 
fast  yet." 

Marie,  with  curled-up,  contemptuous  lips,  held  the 
intended  deceiver  out  at  arm's  length  and  slowly  and 
derisively  put  out  her  spiteful,  red  tongue  at  her  — 
then  suddenly  caught  her  by  the  heels  and  hurled  her 
out  of  the  window,  remarking:  "You  nasty,  little, 
ugly  beast  I  I  hope  the  'hoppers  and  the  ants  '11  get 


Dinah  285 

all  over  you,  and  fleas  in  your  stockin-legs,  too !  And 
who  ever  brought  you  here  shall  be  pinched,  all  black ! 
So  there  !  Now,  where's  Dinah  ?  " 

A  pretended  search  followed,  till  suddenly  Marie 
remembered  she  had  left  Dinah  out  in  the  garden. 
"  Oh,  Cawie !  Cawie  !  "  she  cried,  "  I  forgo tted  her, 
my  own,  peshous  Dinah,  and  she's  been  reading  all 
night,  without  her  dinner!  Oh,  Dinah!  Dinah  !"  and 
away  she  started  to  the  porch,  on  her  way  to  rescue 
her  beloved.  And  then  the  old  struggle,  between 
mother  and  child  was  renewed.  In  her  foolish  endeavor 
to  deceive  Marie  a  little  longer,  Mrs.  Tyler  told  false 
hood  after  falsehood.  Now  it  was  a  curious  thing  about 
the  vixen,  that  she  was  utterly  truthful,  for  her 
mother  was  a  prolific,  though  inconsequential  liar — 
her  lies  so  utterly  lacking  cohesive  power  that  they 
never  were  known  to  sustain  one  another,  and  Marie 
often  berated  her  mother  for  her  wrong-doing. 

Now  nearly  distracted,  the  child  suddenly  turned  to 
me,  asking :  "  Cawie,  Cawie,  has  my  Dinah  fallen 
down  the  well?" 

I  shook  my  head,  and  answered,  "  No,  Marie,  dear," 
while  in  the  same  moment  Mrs.  Tyler  quickly 
exclaimed:  "  Yes,  my  sweet, she  is  in  the  well,  but  the 
man  will  get  her  out,  and  tomorrow  you  shall  have 
her  in  all  new  things !  " 

Marie  glared  at  her  a  few  seconds,  then  stamping 
her  foot,  cried,  "  How  dare  you,  you  so  wicked  mamma! 
Stop,  now !  Stop,  I  say ;  you  make  lies  every  day,  you 


286  A  Silent  Singer 

do.  Go  do  your  hair  up  right,  and  sit  in  the  parlor 
and  make  lies,  and  let  me  find  my  dear  Dinah.  Cawie, 
will  help  me !  ' ;  and  as  she  got  through  the  door  and 
into  the  dew-wet  garden,  Mrs.  Tyler  cried  out :  "  She's 
all  right,  she  is  in — in — the  oven  getting  dry.  You 
can  have  her  soon,  only  my  angel,  come  and  get 
dressed  now !  " 

But,  with  a  cry  of  delight,  her  angel  tore  out  of  her 
hands  and  darted  into  the  kitchen,  and  before  Mrs.  Tyler 
could  signal,  much  less  speak  to  Norah,  Marie  cried  : 
"  Norah,  what's  in  the  oven?  "  and  that  honest  bond- 
maiden  answered,  "  Nothin',  Miss,  its  not  hot  enough 
for  biscuit,  see!  "  and  she  threw  open  the  door,  and 
into  its  black  maw  disappeared  the  child's  bright  hopes. 
She  stood  quite  still,  and  looked  first  at  one  and  then 
at  another,  I  was  crying  quietly,  but  I  watched  her 
and  saw  her  face  growing  paler  and  paler.  At  last  she 
took  a  fold  of  my  mother's  dress  in  her  hand  and  said : 
"  Auntie,  is  my  Dinah  dead  ?  ' ' 

Before  she  could  lift  her  bent  head  to  answer,  Norah, 
with  a  mighty  roar,  burst  forth  :  "  She  is,  Miss,  she's 
dead  and  killed,  and  all  tored  up,  and  there's  nothing 
left  of  her  !  " 

Poor,  little  soul !  Both  hands  clasped  convulsively. 
That  curious  quiver  came  to  her  eyelids,  and  the  move 
ment  in  her  slender  throat  showed  that  she  swallowed 
dryly  at  something — sorrow  is  always  so  hard  to  swal 
low  !  Then  she  flung  out  her  arms,  and  giving  a  cry 
that  pierced  like  a  knife,  she  flung  herself  out  of 


Dinah  287 

the  kitchen,  and,  of  all  places  in  the  house,  made 
straight  for  the  dark  store-room,  off  the  dining-room ; 
she  who  feared  but  two  things,  lightning  and  utter 
darkness,  now  sought  the  latter,  and  closed  the  door 
behind  her,  where  we  heard  her  little  hands  feeling 
for  some  catch  or  bolt  to  fasten  it,  but  luckily,  there 
was  none.  Mrs.  Tyler  was  nearly  wild;  the  pantry 
was  very  small,  utterly  dark,  and  nearly  airless.  In 
it  were  kept  barrels  of  flour  and  sugar,  boxes  of  tea 
and  bags  of  coffee,  and  closed,  it  was  black  as  night. 
She  prayed,  pleaded,  flattered,  promised,  and  to  each 
prayer  came  a  kick  at  the  door,  and  the  threat,  "If 
you  touch  the  door,  I'll  make  me  dead  !  I  will !  I  will !  " 

Everyone  stood  helpless  before  this  small  child's 
power  to  harm  herself.  Mrs.  Tyler  denounced  Norah 
for  telling.  Other  members  of  the  family  begged  at 
the  door  to  speak  to  Marie  a  moment,  just  a  moment, 
in  vain ;  yet  her  voice  was  distinctly  weaker,  and  all  were 
frightened. 

"  I  must  bring  her  out  by  force !  "  declared  Mr. 
Tyler. 

And  then,  for  the  last  time,  I  was  called  upon  to 
play  "lightning-rod."  The  uncle  said,  "Let  Carrie  try," 
and  then  all  hands  were  on  my  shoulder,  pushing  me 
forward,  and  before  I  knew  it  I  was  alone.  I  on  one 
side  of  the  door,  stupid  and  idealess,  and  Marie  on 
the  other  side,  heartbroken  and  relentless.  I  was  quite 
a  big  girl  then,  but  I'm  afraid  I  had  my  finger  in  my 
mouth. 


288  A  Silent  Singer 

I  tried  to  think,  but  I  didn't ;  on  the  contrary,  I 
discovered  a  little  nail-hole  in  the  door  that  had  been  filled 
up  with  putty,  and  then,  faint  and  low,  almost  in  a 
whisper,  I  heard,  "Oh,  Cawie,  Cawie!  Oh,  my 
Dinah!" 

And  I  sprang  to  the  door,  opened  it,  and  went  in, 
and  the  next  instant  I  was  sitting  on  a  bag  of  salt,  and 
poor  Marie  was  across  my  knees,  sobbing  as  though 
her  heart  would  break.  I  had  left  the  door  part  way 
open,  and  as  I  heard  some  one  cautiously  approaching, 
I  wildly  waved  my  half-laced  boots  at  them  to  keep 
away.  I  had  not  said  a  word  ;  I  only  sat  smoothing 
her  silky,  auburn  hair,  while  she  cried,  and  cried,  and 
cried,  and  every  now  and  then  gasped,  "  She's  gone, 
all  gone,  every  bit  of  her  !  Oh,  my  Dinah  !  " 

But  when  she  once  added,  "  and  I  can't  do  anything 
for  her  in  the  world,"  my  idea  at  last  arrived,  hurried, 
out  of  breath  and  belated,  but  still  an  idea,  and  I 
eagerly  said,  "  Oh,  Marie,  dear,  there's  a  little  of  her 
left,  enough  to  make  a  beautiful  funeral !  " 

She  shook  her  head,  saying,  "  Got  to  have  their 
bodies  to  make  funerals." 

"  But,"  I  went  on,  "  don't  you  remember  the  poor 
men  your  papa  saw  all  blowed  up  by  the  engine  ? 
There  wasn't  much  left  of  them,  but  they  had  funerals, 
every  one  of  them." 

She  turned  her  tear-wet  face  toward  me,  and  asked, 
dully,  "  How  much  was  left  ?" 

"  Oh,"  I  replied,  with  an  airy  assumption  of  knowl- 


Dinah  289 

edge  worthy  of  my  elders,  "bits  of  skin,  and  little 
bones  like  teeth,  you  know,  and  broken  '  spenders.'  ' 

"  But,"  objected  Marie,  "  Dinah's  teef  hadn't  growed 
yet,  and  she  didn't  wear  spenders,"  and  her  sobs  broke 
forth  anew. 

I  reassured  her  by  telling  her  there  was  quite  a  large 
piece  of  Dinah's  flannel  petticoat  left,  and  over  half  of 
her  face  (including  all  of  her  indestructible  smile),  and 
perhaps  we  might  find  some  more  bits  if  we  looked, 
and  we  could  put  them  all  in  a  little,  white  sheet,  in  a 
true  box  (a  wooden  box),  and  truly  bury  her  just 
like  any  other  person. 

The  poor,  little  vixen  sat  up  and  put  her  hair  from 
her  eyes  and  listened — she  began  to  be  interested — then 
the  tears  slipping  down  her  wan  cheeks,  she  stole  her 
arm  about  my  neck  and  whispered :  "  Cawie,  where  has 
the  inside  Dinah  gone?  —  the — the  now— I-lay— me- 
down-to-sleep  Dinah?  " 

I  was  silent;  and  I  could  feel  the  trembling  of  her 
body  increase  as  she  waited  for  an  answer.  Then  she 
wailed  :  "  Oh,  Cawie !  tell  me  !  tell  me !  " 

Poor  baby!  who  wanted  her  doll  to  be  immortal 
as  herself!  I  dared  not  say  she  was  in  Heaven,  so 
without  an  idea  of  what  Paradise  meant,  I  calmly 
told  her  that  "Dinah  was  in  dolls'  Paradise" — and 
that  was  the  only  time  I  ever  knew  her  to  be  called 
a  doll. 

"  What's  that?  "  asked  Marie,  eagerly. 

"  Why,"  I  answered,   "  it's  a  lovely,  clean,  sweet 


290  A  Silent  Singer 

place,  where  dead  dolls  wait  till  their  owners  get  dead 
too,  and  call  for  them  on  their  way  to  Heaven." 

May  I  be  forgiven — but  I  certainly  had  a  fine,  able- 
bodied  imagination  in  my  youth. 

"  Oh,"  cried  Marie,  and  she  put  her  little  lips  to 
mine  and  kissed  me  sweetly,  "  Oh,  Cawie !  I'se  glad, 
and  I  do  hope  she  won't  get  out  and  get  lost — she  gets 
lost  very  easy,  you  know — before  I  get  dead  and  go  for 
her,"  and  she  took  my  hand  and  we  came  forth  from 
the  store-closet,  and  at  sunset,  in  a  deal-box  with  brass 
hinges  and  lock  (from  the  young  uncle),  in  a  white, 
silk  handkerchief  (from  Papa),  Dinah's  scrappy 
remains  were  buried  at  the  foot  of  the  orange  tree — bur 
ied  with  flowers  from  every  one,  and  passionate  tears 
from  Marie,  and  many  promises,  as  she  kissed  the  box, 
not  to  forget  to  stop  at  Paradise  for  her. 

She  had  not  allowed  any  "  grown-ups  "  to  do  any 
thing  except  look  on;  she  and  I  did  all.  The  mother, 
wishing  to  please  her,  said :  "  Should  we  move  from 
here,  dear  one,  we  will  take  up  Dinah  and  keep  her 
with  us." 

But  Marie,  with  frowning  brows,  rejected  this  offer. 
"  No !  "  she  said,  "  if  her  now-I-lay-me  part  got  lost 
out  of  Paradise,  she  could  come  right  here  and  find  her 
old  self  in  her  home.  If  the  box  was  moved,  she  would 
be  lost  everywhere  !  " 

And  she  went  back  alone,  and  I  looked  and  saw  her 
pat  the  grave  gently,  and  heard  her  say :  "  My  peshous 
Dinah ! " 


Life's    Aftermath 


Life's    Aftermath 

"  The  grave  of  all  things  hath  its  violet" 

It  was  in  mellow,  many-hued  October.  It  was  a 
Sunday — sunny  and  still.  There  was  the  feel  of 
Sunday  in  the  air.  Three  years  had  passed  since  the 
Great  Soldier's  prayer,  "Let  us  have  peace!"  had 
been  answered  with  blessed  acquiescence.  But  when, 
for  any  reason,  the  people  came  together  in  a  crowd, 
it  was  sad  to  see  how  many  still  wore  mourning.  And 
when  the  wearer  was  old  or  middle-aged,  there  was 
something  in  the  deadly  composure  of  manner  that 
said  as  plain  as  words :  "  This  will  be  my  garb  as  long 
as  life  shall  last!  " 

One  woman  there  was  who  watched  with  envious 
eye  those  who  passed  her  wearing  "deep  mourning." 
Envious,  because  she  was  herself  denied  the  sad  satis 
faction  of  this  outward  expression  of  her  great  grief. 
Her  husband — her  dearer  self — had  simply  abhorred 
the  custom — the  "social  bondage,"  as  he  called  it — of 
mourning!  The  wrapping  up  of  the  strained  and 
shaken  body  in  black  garments,  and  then  the  shutting 
out  of  every  breath  of  pure  air,  every  ray  of  God's 
sunlight  with  yards  on  yards  of  the  most  hideous 
product  of  the  manufacturing  world — black  crepe — 
was,  he  declared,  detrimental  to  good  health  when  worn 
willingly,  and  when  worn  unwillingly,  it  was  hypoc 
risy  as  vulgar  as  it  was  cruel.  And  he  had  exacted 


294  A  Silent  Singer 

a  solemn  promise  from  her,  that  in  the  approaching 
hour  of  her  loss,  she  would  wear  no  crepe  at  all,  and 
black  only  for  the  briefest  possible  time ;  a  concession 
made  to  save  her  from  the  wondering  and  satirical 
comments  of  her  friends  and  neighbors. 

Now  suddenly  the  church  bells,  the  chimes,  burst 
forth  and  tossed  high  their  ringing  notes  into  the  pel 
lucid  air,  sweet  reminders  to  the  Great- All  Father  that 
His  children,  sinning,  bewildered,  yet  loving,  trusting 
still,  were  gathering  from  afar  to  kneel  and  humbly 
pray  together ;  remembering  well  those  words  big  with 
promise :  "  When  two  or  three  are  gathered  together 
in  my  name  !  " 

And  among  the  moving  multitude,  two  women  from 
opposite  sides  of  the  city  were  approaching  the  same 
church.  Both  were  middle-aged,  and  both  felt  that,  in 
the  better  sense,  their  lives  were  over.  Both  were  vic 
tims  of  the  war ;  both  had  lost  their  nearest  and 
dearest ;  and  one,  her  home  as  well.  And  now,  among 
strangers,  she  wore  her  rusty  crepe  with  a  dignified, 
almost  haughty  carriage  of  body,  which,  nevertheless, 
said  plainly :  "  Here  is  the  poverty  which  is  so  cruel  to 
the  well-bred  and  refined !  "  She  worked  to  eke  out 
her  small  pittance  of  an  income,  but  there  was  no 
sweetness,  no  savor  in  her  work.  She  knew  she  was 
growing  hard  and  bitter  in  her  sorrow  and  loneliness, 
but  what  did  it  matter  now ;  there  was  no  dear  one  to 
be  wounded  by  her  sarcastic  speech.  "A  childless 
widow!"  she  murmured,  "why  do  I  encumber  the 


Life's  Aftermath  295 

earth  ?  There  is  no  living  thing  that  needs  me,  that  is 
glad  of  my  coming,"  and  she  shuddered  in  her  thin, 
black  garments  as  she  thought  of  the  years  that,  dull 
and  cold,  might  be  waiting  her,  and  then  saw  the 
church,  and  tried  to  bring  her  thoughts  under  control. 

The  other  woman  (she  who  sighed  to  wear  black), 
moving  slowly  and  heavily,  wondered  why  neither  the 
bright,  warm  sun  nor  the  heavy,  handsome  camel's- 
hair  shawl  in  which,  to  the  surprise  of  her  neighbors, 
she  was  closely  wrapped  this  warm  day,  could  conquer 
that  little,  creeping  chill  in  her  blood  that  every  now 
and  then  developed  into  a  shiver.  But  she  gave  that 
matter  scant  thought.  Weary  and  dull  to  her,  the 
very  bells  seemed  to  ring  out  over  and  over  again  the 
one  word,  uA-lone  !  A-lone!  " 

She  had  her  comfortable,  even  handsome,  home ; 
ample  means  to  keep  it  up,  but  it  was  so  empty ! 
There  was  no  one  to  watch  for,  to  dress  for,  to  plan 
for,  cook  for!  No  one  to  give  her  greeting,  or  loving 
thanks  for  loving  service.  She  was  utterly  alone,  and 
she  was  only  forty-four,  and  might  live — good  God ! 
how  long  ?  If  it  were  not  unlawf  id  so  to  do,  she  would 
kneel  here  in  the  church  she  was  entering  and  pray  to 
die  at  once,  that  she  might  fill  her  appointed  place 
between  her  husband  and  her  son,  and  be  at  rest. 

With  such  thoughts,  these  women  approached  the 
church  and  each  other.  Foolish,  wicked  thoughts,  you 
say.  Perhaps,  but  for  a  woman  who  is  growing  old ; 
whose  heart  is  bleeding  from  many  wounds,  it  is  so 


296  A  Silent  Singer 

hard  a  thing  to  face  the  great  world  alone.  But  so  it 
came  about  that  as  Mrs.  Martha  Swift,  of  Ohio,  sat  in 
pew  71,  an  usher  waved  into  pew  72  Mrs.  Marion 
Wallace,  of  Georgia,  who  was  no  sooner  comfortably 
seated  than  a  quick  shiver  shaking  the  shoulders  of 
the  woman  in  front  of  her  drew  her  attention  to  the 
shoulders  and  to  the  shawl  about  them.  And  then  an 
odd  thing  happened.  Her  glance,  at  first  a  merely 
casual  one,  had  quickly  intensified  into  a  prolonged 
and  piercing  stare.  Then  she  had  raised  her  veil  and 
studied  the  shawl  as  if  it  had  been  the  horoscope  of 
one  she  loved ;  studied  it  until  from  the  seeming  con 
fusion  of  the  innumerable  morsels  of  rich,  dim  colors 
tossed  together,  there  came  order  and  a  clear  design. 
Then,  to  the  wonderment  of  two  or  three  observers, 
she  drew  off  her  glove  and,  leaning  forward,  passed  her 
bare  forefinger  eagerly  along  the  edge  of  that  bit  of 
solid  color  always  found  in  the  centre  of  these  precious 
shawls;  did  it  carefully,  as  does  a  woman  who 
searches  for  some  faint  stain  or  mark,  and  suddenly 
the  blood  rushed  to  her  face ;  she  drew  back  swiftly 
into  her  place,  resumed  her  glove,  but  from  "Dearly 
Beloved,"  clear  through  to  "Let  Your  Light  so  Shine," 
she  never  took  her  eyes  from  that  shawl  in  front  of 
her. 

As  Mrs.  Swift  passed  out  of  church,  she  thought 
herself  rather  unnecessarily  crowded  by  a  tall  woman 
in  black.  She  answered  two  or  three  friendly  com 
ments  on  her  bundled-up  appearance  by  saying  that, 


Life's  Aftermath  297 

"  heavy  shawl  and  all,  she  was  still  cold,  at  least  part  of 
the  time,"  and,  "yes,  come  to  think  of  it,  she  was 
shivering  half  her  time  yesterday " ;  "  yes,  it  was  a 
lovely  day,"  and  so  slipped  away  as  quickly  as  she 
could,  and  started  to  walk  across  the  Public  Square, 
that  she  might  be  alone ;  and  then  a  woman  in  black 
was  at  her  side — a  woman  whose  eyes  were  big  and 
bright  with  anger;  whose  trembling  finger  tapped  her 
on  the  arm,  as  she  swiftly  said:  "Madam,  this  shawl  is 
not  your  property ;  it  is  mine ! " 

Mrs.  Swift  was  so  startled — so  utterly  taken  aback — 
that  at  first  she  could  only  stare  at  the  stranger  and 
say,  stupidly :  "  What — what  did  you  say?  " 

And  the  stranger,  in  increasing  anger,  repeated :  "  This 
shawl  is  not  your  property — it  is  mine,  I  tell  you !  My 
most  precious  treasure — mine — and  I  can  prove  it,  too, 
by  marks  you  cannot  gainsay !  " 

But  Mrs.  Swift  drew  away  from  the  tapping  finger, 
exclaiming :  "  Do  you  know  who  you  are  talking  to  ? 
You  must  be  crazy !  Why,  I've  owned  this  shawl  these 
five  years ! " 

"Five years?"  scornfully  cried  the  other,  "I  owned 
it  long  enough  to  know  its  full  design — the  dealer's 
private  mark — that  my  boy  showed  me  when  he  brought 
it  to  me  from  his  first  trip  abroad — and  in  the  corner, 
here  on  the  under  side,  beneath  a  rough  seam  in  the 
border,  you  will  find  two  letters  worked  in  white  silk — 
an  «•  M  "  and  a  "  W,"  and  beneath  them  both  a  tiny 
star  in  many-colored  threads.  See,  then — "  She 


298  A  Silent  Singer 

caught  swiftly  at  the  corner  of  the  shawl  nearest  her 
— turned  it  back — scanned  it  closely,  and  then  triumph 
antly  pointed  out  two  small,  imperfect  letters  in  white 
silk —  "M"  and  "  W,"  with  the  star  beneath,  as  she 
had  said. 

Mrs.  Swift  felt  her  face  flush,  but  she  bravely 
looked  the  excited  woman  in  the  face  :  "  I  do  not  under 
stand,"  she  said.  "  This  shawl  was  a  gift  to  me  from  my 
only  son !  " 

"A  poor  gift  that — of  ill-gotten  property!"  cried 
the  woman  in  black,  and  then  Martha  Swift  lifted  stern, 
blue  eyes  and  said :  "  Madam,  my  son  was  a  soldier !  He 
lies  out  there,  beneath  his  tombstone  now  !  Do  not  insult 
his  memory ! " 

And  she  of  the  black,  burning  eyes  said  quickly:  "  My 
son  fell  at  the  Bloody  Angle — he  was  not  identified — and 
fills  some  corner  of  a  trench  that  is  marked,  if  marked 
at  all,  by  a  stone  bearing  the  cruel  word,  "  Unknown!" 
I  insult  the  memory  of  no  soldier,  and  I  pray  you  pardon 
me!" 

Then,  all  suddenly,  they  stood  with  working  faces, 
holding  hard  to  one  another's  hands,  while  their  tears 
ran  swiftly.  They  were  too  deeply  moved  to  speak  much 
then,  and  they  drew  down  their  veils  that  they  might 
not  attract  attention. 

They  had  exchanged  names  and  addresses,  then 
walked  silently  as  far  as  the  monument  in  the  centre  of 
the  Square.  As  they  were  about  to  separate,  Mrs. 
Swift  said :  "  Mrs.  Wallace,  this  dear  shawl  is  yours, 


Life's  Aftermath  299 

beyond  the  shadow  of  a  doubt — and  back  it  goes  to  you, 
be  sure  of  that — but  won't  you  come  to  my  house,  in  a 
day  or  two,  and  tell  me  its  story  ?  "  Then,  seeing  refusal 
dawning  on  the  other's  face,  she  quickly  added,  "  I 
would  so  like  to  hear  about  your  boy  !  " 

Ah,  subtle  tempter !  What  mother  could  resist  sucn[ 
sweet  flattery !  Not  this  one,  who  for  two  long  years 
had  not  named  aloud  that  beloved  son — who  entering 
the  army  as  an  elegant  young  beau,  had  died  in  broken 
shoes  and  tattered  clothing — fighting  like  a  demoniac ! 

Yes,  she  would  come,  and  Mrs.  Swift  would  tell  her 
side  of  the  story  too — would  she  not?  And  then  it 
would  all  come  clear  between  them  about  the  shawl — 
and  there  would  be  blame  to  no  one  but  herself,  perhaps, 
for  her  too  hasty  speech ! 

And  with  these  promises  they  parted — each  thinking 
compassionately  of  the  other :  "  How  she  must  suffer, 
it  is  so  terrible  a  thing  to  lose  husband  and  child  too !" 

The  following  Tuesday,  on  starting  out  to  make  the 
promised  visit,  Mrs.  Wallace  became  conscious  of  a 
lightness,  an  alertness  of  movement — of  a  genuine 
feeling  of  interest  in  the  approaching  interview,  as 
pleasant  as  unusual  to  her.  And  she  wondered  a  little 
that  she  felt  in  her  heart  no  enmity  for  this  Northern 
woman  who  had,  beyond  a  doubt,  done  her  small  best  to 
help  conquer  the  South  and  destroy  the  beloved 
"  Cause  "  !  But,  considered  simply  as  individuals,  they 
were  both  conquered — beaten — broken  down  forever! 
In  tastes,  up-bringing  and  experience,  they  were  as  far 


300  A  Silent  Singer 

apart  as  the  poles,  but  between  those  two  great  cries  of 
motherhood — one  wrung  from  the  body's  anguish  at  the 
man-child's  birth,  and  the  other  from  the  soul's  anguish 
at  his  death — the  women  understood  and  sympathized 
passionately  with  each  other !  With  these  thoughts  in 
her  mind,  Mrs.  "Wallace  made  her  way  to  the  pretty 
house,  with  its  bit  of  lawn,  choice  shrubs  and  late 
flowers,  that  belonged  to  Mrs.  Swift,  and  had  the  door, 
after  some  delay,  thrown  open  for  her  by  an  elderly  and 
very  angry  gentleman — evidently  a  doctor — who  con 
tinued  an  unequal  contest  with  two  hysterical  and  bel 
ligerent  maidens  from  the  "  Old  Isle  " — one  of  whom, 
with  the  maddening  iteration  peculiar  to  her  class, 
repeated  again  and  again  :  "  'Twas  meself  that  heard 
it! — the  Banshee  !  Bad  'cess  to  yees — 'twas  meself  that 
heard  it — the  Banshee ! — the  Banshee !  "  while  the 
other,  with  maudlin  tears,  vowed  she'd  "  lave  that  minute 
for  she  couldn't  stand  hearin'  talkin'  of  blood  and — 
shootin'  and  such-like  things — besides,  when  a  woman 
was  crazy,  she  might  kill  the  lot  of  them — and  such 
rucktions  she  couldn't  stand  at  all — at  all !  and  lave  she 
must  and  would  !  " 

Then  the  doctor  locked  the  door,  put  the  key  in  his 
pocket,  and  turning  to  the  astonished  looker-on,  said : 
"  Let  us  get  out  of  this  hul-a-ba-loo !  Come  in  here, 
please,  where  we  can  escape  from  that  infernal  Banshee! 
Now,  Madam,  Mrs.  Swift  is  a  very  sick  woman !"  ("  Oh," 
thought  Mrs.  Wallace,  "  here  is  the  meaning  of  those 
shiverings,  last  Sunday !")  "  She  is  going  to  be  worse 


Life's  Aftermath  301 

before  she's  better;  she  is  absolutely  alone  save  for 
these  rattle-brained  servants,  who  were  bad  enough  to 
begin  with,  but  are  for  leaving  the  poor  soul  here  alone 
because  she  has  been  a  bit  delirious.  You  look  like  a 
sensible  woman  and  a  kind  one.  Are  you  an  old  friend, 
and  can  you  by  chance  help  her  and  me  now,  in  this 
emergency?"  Remember,  you  could  not  "push  the 
button  "  then,  and  let  the  trained  nurse  do  the  rest. 
There  was  no  button  to  push,  and  no  trained  nurse  to 
answer  it.  Each  family  had  to  care  for  its  own  sick. 
To  go  to  the  hospital  was  looked  upon  as  a  degradation. 
Such  nurses  as  could  be  had  were  mostly  poor,  old, 
homeless  bodies,  as  ignorant  as  they  were  disobedient, 
and  Mrs.  Swift's  case  was  not  a  very  uncommon  one. 

Mrs.  Marion  Wallace  paused — before  she  answered. 
She  literally  could  not  say,  "  I  am  a  stranger."  At 
her  first  slow  words,  "  I  am  not  an  old  friend,"  such 
a  look  of  despair  came  into  the  doctor's  face  that  she 
hurriedly  added,  "  but  still  a  friend,  and — ,"  slowly 
removing  her  bonnet  and  shawl,  she  stepped  to  the  hall, 
took  the  Banshee's  white  apron  from  her,  tied  it  about 
her  own  waist,  sent  the  Banshee  herself  up  stairs  for  a 
pair  of  slippers — "  anyone's  would  do  " — and  returning 
to  the  parlor,  said,  quietly  :  "  Now,  Doctor,  if  you  will 
kindly  give  me  your  first  instructions  in  writing,  please. 
You  see,  I  shall  have  to  get  this  demoralized  household 
set  right  again.  When  all  is  going  smoothly,  I  shall 
only  need  to  be  told  your  wishes,  but  just  at  first — 

And  the  doctor  had  stared  a  moment,  and  then  he 


302  A  Silent  Singer 

had  caught  her  hands  and  shook  them  half  off,  crying : 
"  You'll  stay  —  you'll  take  charge  here  ?  You're  a 
mighty  fine  woman,  I  can  tell  you  that  —  and  what  I 
call  a  good  Christian,  by — !  "  And  so  this  strange, 
Southern  woman  came  to  nurse  faithfully  her  Northern 
sister  in  sorrow  —  to  guide  her  household  into  ways 
of  clocklike  regularity,  and  so  heard  the  story  of  the 
shawl,  not  once,  but  many  times — but  always  told  with 
fever-cracked  lips — with  burning  eyes  and  hands  wand 
ering  and  restless,  and  alas,  always  with  hoarse  entreat 
ies  to  believe  her  —  her  boy  could  not  steal  —  no,  not 
even  for  her,  his  mother !  He  had  bought  the  shawl 
from  one  who  swore  he  had  come  by  it  honestly !  If 
only  the  strange  woman  with  the  angry  eyes  would 
believe  her!  "You  see,  it  came  about  like  this" — she 
would  say,  and  wearily  begin  all  over  again,  to  explain 
— to  convince — to  defend  ! 

Then  one  day  the  subject  of  her  rambling  talk  was 
changed.  She  seemed  to  be  reading  some  account  of  a 
Northern  victory —  over  and  over  again,  she  repeated 
all  the  details  —  the  calmness  of  the  great  General  — 
the  wild  delight  of  the  victorious  troops! — the  rags 
and  hunger  of  the  prisoners — and  always  ended  with  : 
"  The  enemy  lost  two  thousand  men  killed  and  five 
thousand  wounded !  " 

Mrs.  Wallace  had  listened  to  the  harassing  repeti 
tion  of  this  Northern  triumph  until  her  strained  nerves 
could  bear  no  more,  and  was  turning  with  a  flushed 
face  to  leave  the  bedside,  when  a  sort  of  gasping  sob 


Life's  Aftermath  303 

stopped  her.  Once  more  the  sick  woman  repeated : 
"  The  enemy  lost  two  thousand  men  killed —  "  and 
then,  in  a  tone  lowered  almost  to  a  whisper,  she  added  : 
"Oh,  the  wives  and  the  mothers  ! — two  thousand  killed! 
Oh,  dear  God,  be  merciful  to  the  poor  mothers  —  the 
heart-broken  mothers  of  the  South!"  and  Mrs. Wallace 
sank  upon  her  knees,  and  taking  the  burning  hand  of 
the  sick  woman  in  her  own,  she  cried  :  "  Great  heart ! 
I  will  love  you  all  my  life,  for  that  gentle  prayer !  " 

The  words  seemed  to  reach  the  inner  counsciousness 
of  the  sufferer—  her  hot,  blue  eyes  turned  their  glance 
upon  the  calm,  brown  ones  beside  her,  where  they 
wavered  for  a  moment  —  steadied  —  rested,  and  then 
recognition  dawned  in  them,  and  a  weak  voice  whisp 
ered  :  "  You  said—?  " 

"  I  said  I  loved  you  for  your  great  heart !"  answered 
Mrs.  Wallace. 

A  faint  brightness  came  to  the  sick  face,  and  she 
said  :  "  Then  don't  leave  me  ever !  We  can  love  and 
mourn  our  dead  together !  Life  is  so  hard  —  to  bear 
alone — be  my  sister — Marion  !  " 

They  looked  long  into  each  other's  eyes.  They  must 
have  thought  of  many  things !  But  it  was  as  if  the 
hands  of  their  dear,  dead  boys  drew  them  together. 
And  Mrs.  Wallace  gently  answered  :  "I  will  not  leave 
you  while  you  want  me,  Martha !  We  will  walk  together, 
if  you  will  it,  till  we  are  called  to  join  our  dear  ones ;" 
their  hands  met  in  a  close  clasp,  and  in  ten  minutes 
Mrs.  Swift  was  asleep.  After  Mrs.  Swift  had  recovered, 


304  A  Silent  Singer 

the  neighbors  spent  all  their  spare  time,  and  a  good 
deal  that  was  not  spare,  in  wondering  "when  that 
Southern  woman  was  going  away?  " 

Early  in  the  winter  they  had  seen  two  trunks  and  a 
large  picture  brought  to  the  house,  but  they  watched  in 
vain  for  the  exit  of  the  aforesaid  two  trunks  and  picture. 
What  could  it  mean  ?  They  all  declared  Mrs.  Swift 
too  active  a  woman  to  want  a  housekeeper — too  strong 
to  need  a  nurse  —  too  proud  and  too  well  off  to  have  a 
boarder!  But  surely  she  would  have  to  go  soon,  now 
that  spring  was  almost  upon  them!  And  lo!  one 
sunny  spring  morning,  both  ladies,  with  garden  hats 
firmly  tied  on,  and  loose  old  gloves  protecting  their 
hands,  were  out  in  the  garden,  making  life  a  misery  and 
bewilderment  to  the  harmless,  nearly  useless  old  gardener, 
who,  doddering  about,  accepted  their  orders  with  a 
respectful  misunderstanding  of  them  that  promised 
rare  developments  for  the  future.  One  thing  they  did, 
though,  with  their  own  hands.  Mrs.  Swift  had  obtained 
a  fine,  young  magnolia — a  gift  for  Mrs.  Wallace.  It 
was  a  pretty  thought,  and  Mrs.  Wallace  accepted  shrub 
and  thought  with  warm  gratitude.  And  together,  with 
smiles,  and  may  be  a  tear  or  two,  they  planted  the 
magnolia  on  the  lawn,  and  at  the  same  time  filled  the 
souls  of  the  neighbors  with  a  very  anguish  of  curiosity. 

When  summer  came,  notes  from  a  well-played  piano 
floated  from  the  open  windows  of  Mrs.  Swift's  house, 
and  no  matter  what  classic  composition  Mrs.  Wallace 
might  begin  with,  she  always  closed  her  playing  with 


Life's  Aftermath  305 

"  In  the  Hazel  Dell,"  because  that  had  been  the  favo 
rite  song  of  the  young  Northern  soldier,  and  his  mother 
loved  to  hear  the  simple,  old  air  for  his  dear  sake. 

Winter  came,  and  the  two  trunks  and  the  picture 
had  not  been  removed.  The  neighbors  had  fallen  into 
a  sort  of  torpor.  Then,  one  day,  one  rushed  to  the 
others,  declaring :  "  They  call  each  other  by  their  first 
names !  Yes,  Mrs.  Swift  said :  4  Marion,  there  must 
be  double  windows  for  your  room  this  winter !  '  and 
that  Southern  woman  answers  up  :  4  Oh,  no,  Martha, 
that's  not  necessary! '  What  do  you  think  of  that?  " 
Evidently  there  was  no  use  in  watching  the  house,  after 
that,  for  the  departure  of  the  Southern  woman. 

During  the  long  winter  evenings,  this  elderly  couple 
used  to  talk  unceasingly  of  the  war,  and  they  would 
tell  one  another  of  this  or  that  engagement,  illustrating 
the  positions  of  the  troops  with  spools  of  thread,  the 
scissors  always  coming  handy  for  streams  that  had  to 
be  crossed.  Then  Mrs.  Swift  never  tired  of  hearing 
what  the  war  had  meant  to  the  women  of  the  South. 
She  wept  over  the  burned  houses,  the  looted  property, 
the  hunger,  the  make-shift  for  clothing,  and  would  draw 
her  rocker  closer  to  Mrs.  Wallace,  as  she  told  how  the 
last  precious  ounces  of  real  coffee  had  been  hidden — as 
people  hide  gold  or  jewels — only  to  be  brought  forth  in 
tiny  portions  for  a  sick  or  wounded  soldier — told  how 
she  had  cut  up  old  garments  of  her  husband's  to  make 
herself  shoes,  and  had  worn  skirts  made  from  her  sit 
ting-room  curtains ! 


306  A  Silent  Singer 

When  spring  came  again,  and  Decoration  Day 
arrived,  Mrs.  Wallace  felt  that  Mrs.  Swift,  for  the  first 
time,  showed  a  lack  of  tact — of  proper  feeling — in 
insisting  upon  having  her  accompany  her  to  the  ceme 
tery  that  day.  It  would  be  very  painful  to  see  the 
graves,  all  flower-covered,  and  to  think  of  her  own  dear, 
unhonored  dead,  lying  so  far  away.  This  insistence 
was  so  unlike  Mrs.  Swift's  usual  manner,  too  !  Well, 
she  must  bear  it !  and  so  she  entered  the  carriage,  with 
a  heavy  heart,  to  drive  to  the  cemetery,  and  wondered 
a  little  why  Mrs.  Swift  had  two  great  wreaths,  instead 
of  one,  to  lay  upon  the  grave. 

When  they  arrived,  she  wished  to  remain  in  the  car 
riage,  but  again  Mrs.  Swift  insisted  upon  having  her 
company,  and  together  they  made  their  way  to  the 
family  plot,  and  there  stood  the  explanation  of  Mrs. 
Swift's  strange  conduct — a  fair,  white  stone,  bearing  the 
name  of  Wallace  instead  of  Swift.  And  Mrs.  Wallace 
knelt  humbly  down  to  read  that  this  monument  was  in 
memory  of  the  young  captain,  Marion  Wallace,  whose 
body  lay  in  the  distant  State  where  he  had  fallen  fight 
ing  for  the  "cause"  he  loved!  As  she  pressed  her 
lips  upon  the  name  on  the  stone,  she  solemnly  vowed 
that  the  welfare  of  the  woman  who  had  done  this  thing 
should  be  the  one  object  of  her  life  hereafter. 

And  so  they  faced  the  world  together.  A  gentle  pair, 
helping  the  poor  or  the  troubled  ;  trusting  and  admir 
ing  each  other ;  Mrs.  Swift  honestly  believing  Mrs. 
Wallace  was  the  greatest  pianist  in  the  city,  and  that 


Life's  Aftermath  307 

her  feeble  little  sketches  were  remarkable  works  of  art, 
while  Mrs.  Wallace  stood  in  speechless  wonder  at  Mrs. 
Swift's  ability,  with  only  the  help  of  an  inch  or  two  of 
stubby  pencil  and  a  morsel  of  paper,  to  bring  perfect 
order  out  of  the  chaos  of  her  accounts.  And  though 
she  had  something  less  than  three  hundred  a  year,  it 
was  really  astonishing  the  muddle  she  could  get  her 
affairs  into  !  So  it's  no  wonder  that  she  respected  Mrs. 
Swift  as  an  mathematician  of  parts. 

The  shawl  was  worn  by  one  as  often  as  the  other, 
though  it  was  acknowledged  to  be  Mrs.  Wallace's  prop 
erty,  since  she  owned  it  for  years  before  that  day  when 
young  Lieutenant  Swift  had  purchased  it  from  a  soldier 
who  declared  he  had  bought  it  for  a  few  dollars  from 
an  old  contraband  camp-follower.  And  as  they  shared 
the  shawl,  so  they  shared  everything — duties,  pleasures, 
or  personal  belongings.  Each  acted  as  housekeeper, 
month  about.  If  one  was  daintier,  the  other  had  more 
executive  ability.  They  came  to  understand  each  other 
so  perfectly  that  when  Mrs.  Wallace  sometimes  sat 
completely  lost  in  thought,  Mrs.  Swift  could  tell,  from 
the  expression  of  her  face,  whether  she  was  thinking  of 
her  son's  young  manhood  and  soldierly  death  or  of  his 
baby  days  when  within  the  tender  circle  of  her  arms 
he  found  a  very  tower  of  defence  against  the  world. 

The  last  time  I  saw  them  they  were  in  church — the 
same  church  where  they  first  saw  each  other.  Two 
sweet-faced,  old  women  ;  one  blue-eyed,  one  dark-eyed, 
but  both  with  whitened  hair,  each  anxious  to  serve  the 


308  A  Silent  Singer 

other ;  Mrs.  Swift  a  trifle  quicker  about  wraps  and 
foot-stools,  but  Mrs.  Wallace  smilingly  ahead  in  the 
finding  of  places  in  hymnal  or  prayer  book.  As  they 
sat  with  attentive,  uplifted  faces,  I  thought  they  looked 
like  two  ancient  children  who  had  walked  hand  in  hand 
over  a  long,  rough  road  that  alone  either  would  have 
shrunk  from. 

True  sympathy  had  drawn  all  bitterness  from  their 
grief,  while  their  unshakable  faith  in  the  resurrection 
of  the  body  and  the  Life  everlasting,  had  kept  Hope 
alive  in  their  souls  !  Hope  for  that  "  Life  of  the  world 
to  come  "  !  And  Hope's  sweetness  was  in  their  old  eyes 
and  about  their  paled,  tremulous  lips,  as  they  worshipped 
there. 

The  last  prayer  said,  each  instinctively  put  out  her 
hand  to  assist  the  other  to  rise.  Their  hands  met ;  so 
did  their  eyes,  and  they  smiled  at  each  other,  and  at 
that  very  moment  the  sunlight,  striking  on  the  stained- 
glass  window,  flung  a  very  halo  of  splendid  color  about 
their  dear,  white  heads,  the  church  thus  smiling  upon 
them  as  they  smiled  upon  each  other ;  and  I  said  to 
myself:  "The  Aftermath — truly  they  have  garnered 
their  Life's  Aftermath !  " 


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